


Girl Next Door

by LadyVegeets



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Humor, Organized Crime, Romance, Swearing, Vegebul, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 19:23:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 68,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7696333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVegeets/pseuds/LadyVegeets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vegeta, gang member, murderer, psychological mess, is hiding out in an apartment. Little does he realize that the girl next door, Bulma, is about to turn his life upside down... (The sequence of chapters has been fixed! Based on Stupidoomdoodles' comic, 'Girl Next Door'. A bit of angst, romance & humor). "Fire and Ice" is the NEWEST chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. GND - (PROLOGUE) 00? Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the Girl Next Door](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/219508) by stupidoomdoodle. 



NB: A tiny fanfic piece for **stupidoomdoodle’s** vegebul comic, affectionately referred to as the ‘ **Friends** AU’, but also known as **Girl Next Door** (man the person who came up with that name is a GENIUS ;P ). If you’re unfamiliar with it, CHECK IT OUT NOW: go to stupidoomdoodle’s twitter or smackjeeves for the most amazing vegebul comics and other impossibly good drawings THAT WILL DESTROY YOUR SOUL. This fic won’t make a lot of sense otherwise.

* * *

~~ox0xo~~

**Girl Next Door**

**00? -Sacrifice-**

 

Vegeta always expected he was going to die, young, and messily. You couldn’t be in this business without knowing the reaper breathed down your neck, laughing at your frail attempts for self preservation, leaving you wondering when the rug would finally be pulled out from beneath you and all that remained of your memory was a passing mention at a bar. “Did you hear about Jim?” “Yeah, got his face blown off last Tuesday. Poor bastard.” “Yeup. Well, never did much care for the guy.” “Mm.”

That was all your life amounted to in the shady corners of the underworld. No one was going to shed a tear for you, what would be the point? Everyone shared the same fate sooner or later, and if you were going to weep over some dumb fuck gang-banger you hardly trusted with a pack of smokes, then you were going to be weeping for yourself like all those sad fucks at the bar, tumbling down the bottom of a glass of the strongest drink your last paying gig could buy, flushing away your self-pity in a mouthful of 46% liquid absolution. But the smart ones didn’t; there was no room to feel sorry for yourself in this line of work. That would get you killed faster than anything else.

And Vegeta was as smart as they came. With fatalistic nonchalance, he knew he was going to die, but not any time soon if he could help it, and not with any misgivings or self-pity. If he was going to kick the bucket, it would probably be on some impossible mission Frieza had in store for him when the boss finally got fed up of his arrogance and insubordination. Vegeta was somewhat surprised he’d made it this far, but he supposed his ability to dissociate from his victims and get results by the most violent means necessary was saving him from being the next bit of gossip passed around at the gang’s local watering holes. “To Vegeta, the Prince of all Bastards. Glad it was him and not me.” Yep, that’s pretty much all he could hope to expect for in this life.

Until her. 

She had breezed into his world, all blue hair and sultry eyes, long limbs and annoying, disarming smiles with her bright-as-fucking-can-be personality that set his teeth on edge and a vein in his temple throbbing. He couldn’t get rid of her. She was pervasive, like lingering perfume, clouding his thoughts and leaving traces of herself in his mind even when she wasn’t there. And god, she was so _nice_. And… _fun_. And _pretty_. Jesus Christ it was aggravating. And for some fucking reason that he would never understand, she seemed to take a liking to him. She worked her way into his life so subtly that he didn’t realize until it was too late that she’d become as natural and expected in his routine as the self loathing he woke up with every morning, the same self loathing that was starting to wane as his thoughts turned more often to her than to some poor schmuck whose leg’s he’d broken earlier in the week. 

 Hell, he was even starting to _look forward_ to seeing her, making _excuses_ to bump into her. What the _shit_ was that about?!

And just when things were going well, just when he started to trust that maybe, just maybe Lady Luck had smiled upon him and granted him something good in his life for all the other short fucking straws he’d drawn, everything fell to shit. _Typical_.

Of course, it all came down to Frieza. Every. Fucking. Time. 

Someone had ratted him out, Nappa no doubt. Frieza had him beaten him, smacked around like he was wont to do because he could, because it amused him to watch his peons suffer and make them ask for more, but Vegeta just took the abuse silently, accustomed to pain. It didn’t hurt, not really, but what _did_ hurt was what Frieza told him, about her. Who she really was, what she was really up to. She was the opposition, the enemy. She’d used him. All the while he’d been honest with her, or as honest as he could be, she’d been fucking deceiving him. She’d made a fool of him, all that fucking time, pretending to be chummy, pretending to be interested…

That _bitch_.

Vegeta was done with it, done with them all, with her, with Frieza, with his useless dumb companions and this bloody, meaningless life he’d been enduring. He was over it all, it could all fucking _burn_ for all he cared. He was going to show them, fuck them all over where it hurt the most, and then run off, get out of the game, and maybe enjoy a bit of freedom before he either got himself killed or someone came and did the job for him.

Well, that had been the plan for all of about half a day, until she did a one-fucking-eighty on him and invited him in to her hideout like he was some kind of… friend… and then proceeded to tell him everything. _Everything_. And then she asked him to _join her fight_. 

Fuck her. FUCK. HER. That was so fucking unfair his mind boggled with the incongruity of it, that she would just throw all that trust and responsibility on him out of fucking nowhere, like he, _he,_ was some white fucking knight, able to save them. What the _fuck_?! And _fuck_ his heart for wanting to believe her again so easily, and _fuck_ those stupid magic zombie balls, whatever they were supposed to be, and _fuck_ - 

“I did promise you a night with no talking, didn’t I?” 

And… and…

…Oh….  _Fuck_ her…

* * *

 

-~-

Vegeta never thought he’d die with regrets. What did he have to regret? His life had been miserable. If he started regretting one thing, he’d have to regret his whole fucking life because the whole experience had been one giant shit show of bad from beginning to end. So he’d embraced the bad, became it, reveled in it. That’s why he was so good at what he did, that’s why Frieza kept him around and tolerated his other shortcomings. 

But _she’d_ seen through that, found some tiny molecule of himself still untainted, trapped away amongst layers of blood and abuse and immorality, and she’d pulled it out, treasured it, polished it… loved it.

And because of it, Vegeta now lay on the floor, bleeding out, counting his life in pained gasps and remaining seconds, full of regrets. He didn’t regret his time leading up to her, as miserable as it had been, it’s what had led him to meet her. But he did regret that they hadn’t had more time together. That he couldn’t have slept with her again, couldn’t have made love to her instead of just fucking with his head filled with animosity, heartache and desire. He regretted that he couldn’t have been more honest with her, or done all the stupid things with her he’d always sneered at other couples for doing. Fuck, death was making him sappy; who’d have thought?

But most of all, he regretted that after all their planning, he hadn’t been able to kill Frieza. He’d fucked up, underestimated Frieza’s strength, and everything had gone to hell just as it always did, and now she wasn’t safe. He couldn’t protect her, the one thing he actually gave a damn about protecting, but he was out for the count, _permanently_. He supposed he regretted that too, that in dying he wouldn’t be able to save her, that he’d brought this on her, that she’d probably die because of it and he still wouldn’t see her even then if what all those church freaks preached was true, because he and Bulma were destined for very different places in the afterlife. 

Life was really fucking unfair sometimes. But at least it would only be unfair to him for a few more seconds… Maybe the Devil would take a liking to him, he couldn’t be any worse than Frieza after all. 

Vegeta closed his eyes, and though he coughed up red, he only saw blue. 

And then he saw nothing.

  

* * *

 ~~ox0xo~~

 

_AN: AND THEN BULMA GIVES HIM A DRAGONBALL AND HE LIVES, RIGHT DOOMS, RIGHT? RIGHT?! ANSWER ME YOU BITCH I mean I love you don’t break my heart too much ;_;_

 - _I apologize for the roughness, I wrote this super fast and didn’t have time to polish it well. Hopefully it’s still readable._

 - _And no, I’m not privy to any secret information, so this is totally not ‘canon’ in terms of Stupidoomdoodle’s comic, but she requested fanfic, and this is what came out, take it for what you will  ;) This was written after the end of chapter 2 being available, so I’m clueless as to what chapter 3 and beyond hold._

 -I _f you like my writing, checkout my other vegebul fanfics on FFnet  :)  I also love comments/feedback, so please don’t be shy :)_

 

_**P.S.** Dragonball and its characters belong to Akira Toriyama, and this AU idea is stupidoomdoodle’s._


	2. GND - 01 Grinchmas

**NB:** Based on **chapter 1, ‘Legitimate Question’** of the **“Girl Next Door”** (aka FriendsAU) comic by **stupidoomdoodles.**

 

**Girl Next Door**

**01- Grinchmas**

 

Vegeta had barely entered the hallway when he was accosted. He was leaving his apartment at the same time the annoying blue haired girl next door was returning to hers, still dusted in snow and rosy-cheeked from the mid December weather. He cursed himself for not having waited 30 more seconds, but Lady Luck or Life or whatever you wanted to call it liked to fuck with him every chance it got, so he really shouldn’t have been surprised. He stood there and let it happen, just like the last half a dozen times, hoping it would be over and done with quickly.

“HI NEIGHBOR!” She greeted _way_ too enthusiastically, coming _right up_ into his personal bubble. Not just his outer bubble mind you, which extended in a six foot radius around him, reinforced by a bad attitude and protected with a murderous glare (and murderous intent if need be), but no, this was his own _personal_ , _private_ bubble that was being invaded, something even a dumb fuck like Raditz knew better than to get on up into (most of the time, anyway). And yet here she was, _in it_. In fact, she had her dainty little hands on his _goddamn chest_ and was excitedly breathing out little puffs of warm air between them in the frigid cold, smelling of cinnamon hot chocolate, her shockingly blue eyes twinkling at him like some goddamn Disney character about to burst into song.

He really, _really_ wished he could say it was the first time she’d been all up in his space, but it sadly wasn’t; whoever this chick was, she didn’t seem to value privacy or personal boundaries _in the slightest_. Her fingers were clinging to his sweatshirt and he barely refrained from flinching away, holding her back in a desperate attempt to keep at least a couple of inches of decency between them. “Hi, crazy person who keeps running into my arms for no reasons,” he grouched at her meaningfully, hoping she’d take the hint. 

She didn’t.

“Say, Vegeta,” she said, and it startled him that she knew his name before he remembered having begrudgingly given it to her on one of their previous ill fated encounters, and he should probably have felt guilty that he didn’t remember hers, but mostly he felt annoyed because it was like she had something on him now and that put him at a disadvantage and Vegeta loathed, _despised_ , being at a disadvantage. “Since we became friends in the last few weeks-”

“More like acquaintances, really,” he amended caustically, bristling at her presumptuousness and her _nearness_. 

 “SUPER BEST ACQUAINTANCES, yes,” she enthused without missing a beat. Fuck, did _nothing_ rattle her? “How about you join me and my friends for this Christmas?”

Wait, she wanted him to what now? “Uh- what’s that?” he asked.

“My Christmas party,” she said, thinking he’d simply misheard. “Would you like to join it?”

Now he was more confused, and a little horrified, to think she was inviting him to some kind of party _._ He gave her an aggravated sneer, wondering if he should even bother asking her to explain herself because that would mean _talking_ to her more, but he was little offended she was flinging around words as if he was supposed to know what they meant, and that just wasn’t _polite_. “No, I mean, what’s a christmas?” 

She laughed as if he’d told a droll joke, her face crinkling cutely. Wait, that’s… not what he’d meant. Not cutely, more like, annoyingly. Mockingly. Stupidly. Yeah… 

He waited for her to stop laughing.

Her smile started to wilt at the edges when she realized he wasn’t joking. “…Vegeta, are you secretly an alien?” she asked, still trying to sound positive. 

“Uh?!” _The hell?!_ And that’s when he realized that this christmas business was one of those things that he was _supposed to know_.

Fuck. _Fuck._

He felt his face pull down into an agitated scowl. His mind was flashing alarm sirens screaming DANGER, DANGER, ABORT, ABORT and he wondered if he could gather the shards of this conversation and save it before it took an even further drastic nose dive into awkward. He was drawing attention to himself and that was _exactly the opposite_ of what he wanted to be doing.

“No,” he snapped, and when he saw her blink in alarm and he remembered how absolutely _dense_ the woman could be, he explained further. “I don’t do parties.” Then he bodily removed her from his path by her arms, gently but firmly pushing her to the side of the hallway, and continued on his way, ignoring the burning feeling of her gaze on his back as he left down the stairs.

Crisis averted, for now at least. Shit. She was starting to become troublesome. He might have to talk to Frieza about arranging a new hideout but then, that would require _talking to Frieza_ wouldn’t it, and Vegeta made real fucking sure he did that as little as possible. Besides, Frieza would just insist he kill her, and she didn’t really deserve that. She was just _annoying_ and overly friendly, and he’d rather not have the smell of cinnamon hot chocolate forever remind him of big, blue, fearful eyes staring up at him right before he snapped her neck, because he’d give her that at least, a quick, clean death.

He wasn’t a monster after all.

As he headed outside to the local grocery store to pick up some supplies, he felt the irritation of her conversation linger with him. He thumbed his cell phone, contemplating calling Nappa or Raditz, but Raditz would probably make fun of him and Nappa might pity him or worse, report it to Frieza, and Vegeta really didn’t need to deal with any of that shit or have to listen to them harp on about it for the next 10 months. He was a big boy, he could figure this out for himself.

Vegeta stepped into the hole in the wall shop where he knew the security camera was only there for show, and picked up a basket and started shoving things into it haphazardly. He drifted past the card section and something caught his eye and for the first time in his life, he actually stopped to look at what Hallmark had to offer.

 _Christmas_.

There it was, staring him right in the fucking face in all it’s red and green glory, cards decorated with fat men and reindeer and trees and stars and angels and shepherds and a slew of other shit, the same shit he realized now was plastered over a lot of the food products with Happy Holidays and Seasons Greetings scrawled over it. 

Oh, so _this_ was Christmas. It was that winter festival, holiday, event thing, whatever. Fuck, he knew what this was… kind of. He just hadn’t known the _name_. 

Stupid smug know-it-all cow, why hadn’t she said that from the beginning? 

Even more irritated because it should have been so obvious what she’d been on about, Vegeta stomped past the cards and finished cramming things into his basket, angrily avoiding anything with christmas embellishments out of spite. As he paid for his items and picked up his bags, the cashier actually bade him, “Merry Christmas.”

Vegeta stalled and looked at him, aghast.

“Or Hanukkah or whatever, man,” the cashier added, seeing the disgusted look on Vegeta’s face.

Vegeta’s eyebrows continued to rise, hearing yet _another_ word he had no fucking idea about, and he wasn’t about to jump down _that_ rabbit hole so he left before the man could spout any other new terminology and Vegeta put his fist through something, probably the cashier’s face.

This was fucking ridiculous. It had been a loooong time since he’d been in this boat, dealing with the repercussions of his upbringing. He thought he was over it. The last time he’d had to live down the result of a deficient childhood had been from a conversation between Raditz and Nappa over who would win a fight between Batman and Wolverine, and Vegeta had asked which gangs they’d belonged to. He _still_ hadn’t lived that one down yet.

Assholes.

Like it was somehow his fault that he’d had what you could kindly call, an unconventional upbringing. He’d been raised away from the modern world. Far, _far_ away from it. Vegeta didn’t even have a legitimate birth certificate, except for the one fabricated for him when he’d needed travel documents. He had grown up a ghost, first sheltered by his father, and when Frieza had seen the end of that, Vegeta had later been sent abroad and passed around various underground child militant training institutions, and put on missions that had always kept him on the very fringes of society. His whole life he had grown up in the shadows, devoid of pop culture and TV, of school and friends, and certainly of things like birthdays and Christmases. There was no place for that in his life and he was _glad_ for it. Proud of it. All those things were _pointless_ , just useless distractions that would get you killed because how did watching music videos or knowing who an X-Man was help you kill a political leader, or shake someone down, or help fill your belly when there was only enough food for one but there were three other sets of hungry eyes in the room with you, waiting to end your existence over a measly chicken wing? The answer was, it didn’t.

_So then why are you so fucking bothered about this Christmas bullshit?_

He didn’t know, but he was. Perhaps because it was the first time he’d been made to feel stupid in front of someone who wasn’t a) now dead or b) fucking Nappa or Raditz. Or maybe because this wasn’t just some latest fad that he’d failed to pay attention to, but an _international fucking holiday_ , and a mistake like that could have been disastrous, possibly deadly if it had given him away, coming up in front of the wrong people instead of a harmless, well meaning if nosey neighbor.

Or maybe, and he was only spitballing here, but _maybe_ it was because he kind of wanted to know what actually happened at a christmas party. Or… _any_ party, for that matter.

Just so he could mock them more accurately, of course.

Vegeta shoved his hands as far into his pockets as they’d go and stomped back through the snow to his apartment. He looked down the hall to where _her_ place was, and felt himself sneer when he saw a green wreath hanging on her door.

 _Fucking Christmas_. Who needed it?

He slammed his door shut, threw his grocery bags into the refrigerator without even sorting them, and then checked in with Nappa to see if anyone needed their kneecaps removed, because he was feeling suddenly very obliging to help.

 

 

 

When he got home, his knuckles still bloodied, but his heart feeling lighter for the pain he’d inflicted, Vegeta came to a sudden halt. Hanging rather innocuously from his front door’s handle was a plastic bag. He’d received no word about expecting any deliveries.

Instantly wary, he glanced around but the hallway was empty. He reached behind him, carefully pulling out his piece and flicking off the safety. He held the gun down as he slowly approached his door, keeping his eyes peeled for any surprises.

Gingerly, he hooked a finger into the bag and pulled it open, just a crack, to peer inside. He scowled at what he saw, and for a moment, he was very confused.

And then he was really annoyed.

No, wait. He was _pissed_.

He reset his gun’s safety and shoved it back into his pants at the small of his back before snatching the bag up and stomping over to her door. He banged on it loudly.

She opened up shortly after, peering through the doorway with large, innocent eyes. 

“The fuck is this?” he demanded, shoving the bag in her face before she could greet him, before she could use his name against him.

She looked at the bag and smiled. “Oh that? It’s a present.”

He could feel his hand start to tremble in fury. “A _what_?”

She gave him a pitying look. “Oh my god, do you not know what a present is either?”

He was nearly at his limit, his metaphorical top nearly blown. Vegeta could feel the fury and humiliation and unbridled rage overwhelm him and it was all he could do not to take it out on her. He shoved the bag at her, forcing her to take it. “I DON’T NEED IT. I KNOW WHAT A CHRISTMAS IS!” he said, seething with indignation.

She hugged the bag to her chest, arching a delicate blue brow at him, not buying it, and for some odd reason, not intimidated either. “- _A_ \- christmas?” she asked condescendingly, leaning casually in the doorway, watching him with growing amusement.

He gripped the doorframe to contain himself from gripping her throat. “However many there are! You know what, Blue? I don’t fucking care. Stay out of my business if you know what’s good for you.”

“But it comes with a free advent calendar,” she protested, completely dismissing his threat.

He bared his teeth at her, barely refraining from growling.

She pulled something out of the bag to show him. “See? It has chocolate inside.”

“I don’t ne-… inside _what, how_? It’s a calendar!” he spluttered indignantly.

She smirked, seeing she had piqued his interest. “No, look, it’s really cool. Every day of the month has these little windows you can pop open, and each one has some candy inside. Fun, huh? You use it to count down to Christmas, which, as we both know you’re an expert on.”

Vegeta looked up at her from under his brow, his glower filled with death and brimstone.

She smiled back at him sweetly. “And because it’s nearly Christmas, you can pop open a whole bunch of them already. But if you don’t want it…” She drawled, and then had the gall to open the first pocket on the cardboard calendar that was supposed to be _his_ , revealing the number 1 and a small piece of candy. She popped it into her mouth and made a happy, satisfied sound. “Mmm!”

Vegeta felt a vein throb on his temple, and he snatched the calendar out of her hands. “Do you _mind_?” he asked her, incredulous.

Her eyes danced wickedly. He glared at her before looking down at the stupid calendar box. He popped open the next window, revealing a 2 and a new piece of candy. Well, it was novel, he had to give the calendar that; there were certainly worse ways to count down the days, that was for sure, he would know. He wasn’t really into sweets if he was being honest, but _she’d_ already eaten one, and was practically daring him not to, waiting to see him chicken out, and there was no way he was going to back out of challenge and be bested by some busybody tomboy. 

He popped the chocolate into his mouth and swallowed without tasting it.

She grimaced, giving him a concerned look, watching him swallow the chocolate as if it were medicine. 

He sneered at her in satisfaction. Challenge met, motherfucker.

“So, about my party,” she started to say.

Vegeta scowled at her. “No.” Why was he even still standing here with her?

“Why not?” she protested. “You don’t have to do anything. Just come, say hi, eat some ham…” 

Ham, there was meat involved? Okay, maybe it wasn’t such a terrible id-

 “Sing some carols.”

“I’m busy,” he said flatly, and started to leave. He didn’t know what carols were, but if it involved _singing_ , he was out.

“You’re busy on _christmas_?” she called after him, sounding skeptical. 

“Yes,” he snapped. Not totally a lie. He was busy almost every day, why not Christmas?

“And what day is that again?” she asked him, her tone oh so fucking smug he wanted to slap her.

Vegeta felt his shoulders stiffen, knowing he’d been caught. He had no fucking idea. He could continue to his room and just ignore her, but that would be tantamount to admitting defeat and then she might never shut up about this damn party or christmas or anything else. His jaw worked furiously, his fingers clenching-

-Around the stupid calendar. He looked down at the box, and felt himself smirk in victory. He punched out the last window, a little candy rolling into his palm and the number 25 and a giant star greeted him. “The 25th,” he replied smugly, and he glanced at her to see her frown and cross her arms.

“That’s cheating!” she called to him and he flashed her a wicked grin before he popped the candy into his mouth and continued towards his room. “And what about the rest of your present?”

“Fuck off, Blue,” he called over his shoulder, retreating to his apartment while he was still winning, leaving her standing in her doorway, still holding the bag with the _Christmas for Dummies_ book inside. 

 

 

 

He got back late. Traffic had been fucking _horrendous_ , and Nappa had been driving like a goddamn granny in the sleet. He was cold, agitated, hungry and tired. As he stomped up the stairs he thought he heard music, something light and teeth achingly happy, and he hoped the walls of his apartment would block it out so he could get some goddamn peace and quiet.

Vegeta held out his keys for his door and then stepped back, seeing it was covered in festive decorations. It was the wrong door. Fuck, he hadn’t been paying attention. He looked around to gather his bearings. Where the fuck was he, was he on the right floor? He couldn’t see the apartment number for all the tinsel. He looked again and latched on to the green wreath on her door nearby.

Okay, what the hell. He _was_ on the right floor, which meant… 

Oh. Oh no…

He looked at his door again, _his door_ , and paled at all the green and red and tinsel and baubles that cluttered the wood. In the middle, right there in the _fucking middle_ of _his door_ was a hand made sign painted in glitter glue that read, _Merry Xmas Mister Grinch_. 

What the fuck was ‘xmas’?

And who the _fuck_ was _‘Mister Grinch’?_

_Maybe you should have accepted that book after all._

Fuck off.

He snatched the sign off his door and brought it right to his face, seeing there was some green… monster looking thing with a gloomy scowl next to the name Grinch, and upon further inspection, the same green frowny face littered a lot of his door.

Vegeta tore everything down and crumpled it all up into one giant ball, which he then shoved deep, deep down into his trash once he got inside and slammed his door closed a little too loudly. He flopped onto his couch, throwing his arm over his eyes, and hissed out a sigh, scowling into the crook of his elbow as he pretended not to hear the party going on next door.

A while later, as he was finishing up from a shower, there was a knocking at his door. He glared at it, refusing to answer, refusing to even move. Anyone important enough would make themselves known, and everyone else could kindly _fuck off_ and _fuck themselves_ because he wasn’t in the _fucking mood_.

The light rapping came again, dainty and uncertain, and he steeled himself, suddenly having a hunch of who it might be. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard something being placed by the door, followed by fading footsteps, and then a door down the hall open and close.

His fingers rapped on his folded arm angrily. With a huff through his nose, Vegeta approached his door, gingerly opening it, silently so as not to be heard, and glanced out. On his doorstep was a large plate of food wrapped in saran, with a little card perched on top. Checking to make sure nobody saw him, Vegeta scooped up the plate and took it inside, locking the door stealthily behind him. He flipped open the card.

“ _We had too much food, so help yourself. No hard feelings about the door, okay? Goku just got excited drawing the Grinch. Merry Christmas, ~Bulma._ ”

 _Bulma_. It sounded vaguely familiar, probably from when she’d introduce herself but he hadn’t bothered to remember because he’d thought, quite wrongly, that he wouldn’t be dealing with his neighbors very much. He glanced at the plate, it was piled high with roasted meats and vegetables, and was still warm to the touch and was starting to fill his apartment with the most incredible smell…

One of the very first rules he’d learnt early on in life, was not to trust food that he didn’t know the source of.

Vegeta picked up the plate and took it to his trash, where the christmas decorations he’d angrily balled up were starting to unfurl. He hovered the plate over the trashcan, hesitating.

 _Throw it in, you dickless cunt_.

His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d almost eaten everything in his apartment, and fuck, if today was Christmas - which explained the traffic, and her party - then that meant all the goddamn stores and restaurants would be closed, wouldn’t they, especially at this time of night. Fuck.

He looked at the plate, his face twisting, agonizing over the decision. He could almost see her smirking at him, amusement dancing in her eyes, watching him, daring him to throw out a perfectly good meal. Finally, fatalistically, Vegeta closed the trash lid and took the plate back to the table. He ripped off the saran wrap and pulled out one of the few forks he owned and stabbed it into a slab of ham, taking a giant bite, the meat dripping with juices and gravy and honeyed glaze.

And, oh…

Oh _fuck._ Fuck this was good. Holy shit! When was the last time he’d eaten anything that wasn’t a prepackaged frozen meal or two-day old leftovers, when was the last time he’d enjoyed something so _fucking good_?

Any more hesitation over the source of his food was gone, because at this point if Vegeta was going to die of poison, then he figured it was as good a way to go as any.

He ate everything, _everything_ , even licking the goddamn plate because fuck you he could, and then stared at the plate miserably afterwards, as if the emptiness of it somehow betrayed him.

And he looked right into a now familiar green frowning face which glared right back at him from the plate’s surface, cursive text scrawled next to it, half faded from use.

“ _You’re a mean one, Mr Grinch. You really are a heel. You’re as cuddly as a cactus, you’re as charming as an eel, Mr Grinch._ ”

Vegeta stared, scowling at the words, but more than that, trying to fight back a rising dread as he realized he was now obliged to not only return the goddamn plate, but probably a sentiment of thanks for the food, and if he didn’t, she’d probably hunt him out for it.

Oh, that cunning _bitch_.

Fucking Christmas. What a goddamn joke.

 

* * *

~~ox0xo~~

 

 **AN:** If you enjoyed this, I’d love to hear your thoughts and read your comments. Feel free to check me out on twitter/tumblr. Also look up Stupidoomdoodles, this AU is all because of her! You can find her work and leave her some love on twitter, tumblr or smackjeeves.

DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is stupidoomdoodle’s idea. I’m just forever playing in their sandboxes. _You’re a Mean One, Mr Grinch_ was written by Theodor Geisel.


	3. GND - 02 Prickly

**NB:** Based on **chapter 1, ‘One Sided Friendship’, ‘Small Talk’ and ‘Gift’** of the **“Girl Next Door”** (aka FriendsAU) comic by **stupidoomdoodles.**

 

 

**Girl Next Door**

**02- Prickly**

 

He stared at the plate.

The Grinch stared back at him.

Vegeta scowled, unknowingly reflecting the green monster’s expression.

Wiping a hand over his face, he sighed and cursed himself for thinking so hard over something that he shouldn’t have spent more than a second on. Agitated with himself, with the situation, and mostly with her, he snatched up the offending dish and exited his apartment. He bent down to leave it by her door step, and was setting a note on top when the door opened.

He looked up from his bent position, staring up into blue eyes.

“Vegeta?” She asked, as startled to see him as he was to see her.

 _Fuck. Whhhyyyyyyy?_ Why did she have to open her door now of all fucking times? 

He stood up, clearing his throat. “Just returning this before you come bug me for it,” he explained, awkwardly handing her the plate, looking away, down the hall, wondering if he could just imagine himself back inside his apartment strongly enough that he might magically teleport there.

“Oh thanks. You know, you could have kept it,” she offered before she saw the aghast look on his face. “… Or not.”

Yeah, like he needed Nappa or Raditz to come over and see he had a plate with a grumpy green cartoon character on it and some quote that he had the uncomfortable feeling had been rather specifically chosen just for him. Raditz would have a field day with something like that.

And then Vegeta remembered the note at the same time she noticed it. Oh no…

She picked it up and he immediately snatched it from her hand. 

“Hey!” she protested, raising a brow. “That’s for me, isn’t it? What, you’re embarrassed now?” she teased with a smirk, and tried to reach for it.

He held it out of reach, above his head. “Don’t fucking read it _now_!” he grouched. Had she no fucking manners? This is why he wanted to leave a goddamn message; dealing with her was a constant exercise in patience.

She snorted and stepped forward, resting one hand on his chest for leverage and pressed up on her tippy toes, trying to grasp for the note with her other hand. “So that’s a yes then. Now I’m _reall_ y curious what it says.”

“Stop acting like a child!” he snapped in alarm, barely able to keep the paper from her reaching fingers.

“No, you.”

“Fuck off, Blue, or so help me-”

“What? What are you going to do, tough guy?” she grinned, and suddenly she wasn’t looking at the note at all but at _him_ , staring _right at him_ , and she was pressed right up on him and they were face to face, noses almost touching, her eyes glittering with amusement and something else, something far more wicked. Her words sparked something warm and unfamiliar in his gut, something stirring, awakening, unfurling at her purred ‘ _tough guy’_ …

And he panicked.

He put his hand over her face and shoved her back at arm’s length, ignoring her sputtering from under his palm, giving himself a few inches to fucking _breathe_.

“The hell is wrong with you?” he snarled when they were separated, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to calm down.

She gave him an incredulous look, folding her arms, scowling at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he snapped back fiercely. “You want to know what the goddamn note said? Fine, it said fuck off. I don’t need your food, or your pity, or you. Got that? Great. Now leave me the fuck alone.” And with that, Vegeta turned and stormed back to his room, slamming the door shut with a satisfying bang. 

A minute later he heard her door close quietly and her soft footfalls as she left, heading down the stairs, off to wherever she’d been going when she’d first opened the door on him. 

Vegeta gritted his teeth, snarling silently into his empty apartment. He tore up his note into tiny pieces until the uncertain, humiliating _thanks_ was no longer legible, and threw the remains into the trash.

It was the last time he’d deal with her, he vowed. He didn’t need this shit.

 

XoxoX

 

When he entered the laundry room in the basement of their building, he froze, seeing her already there.

Of course. Of _course_.

He hesitated for only a moment because leaving would mean _retreating_ , like a fucking _coward,_ and that simply wasn’t acceptable so that only meant going forward and dealing with it, with her. They lived in the same building after all, he was bound to have to deal with her eventually, so he should probably just get it over with. If he could show her how little of a damn he gave, perhaps she’d finally get the idea and just leave him be, let them melt back into the comfortable relationship of strangers and be done with the whole farce of whatever fascination it was that she had for him.

She didn’t say hi. Neither did he. She was wearing ratty clothes, screaming ‘laundry day’ and looking tired and tense, a far cry from her usually put together, bubbly self. He ignored her to dump his dirty laundry on the counter and started shoving pieces of clothing into a washer.

The silence stretched between them. Vegeta was comfortable in silences. He relished them, grew up in them, he coveted and manipulated them, intimidating others with them, reveling in the sweet reprieve that came with them after the last gurgled sound escaped his victim’s lips…

This silence, however, was _abhorrent_. Unnatural.

She was _never_ this silent. It made his skin prickle uncomfortably. He glanced her way but she didn’t even acknowledge he was there. It was kind of hard to give her the cold shoulder when she was doing the same. What was up with that? What did _she_ have to be huffy about?

Her machine beeped and came to a standstill. She started pulling out her freshly washed laundry. 

She swore, softly but vehemently, under her breath. 

He glanced at her again from the corner of his eye. She was holding a couple pairs of panties, stained a rusty brown, and looked defeated. Miserable. Pitiable even. 

It set his teeth on edge; her looking so broken _aggravated_ him.

He sighed, looking back at his own laundry as he screwed open his ‘detergent’. “…Y’know, the secret to taking out blood stains is vinegar and Ammonia.”

“OH MY GOD VEGETA, STOP WITH THE CREEPY “BREAKING BAD” ADVICE IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM,” she snarled, her anger startling him.

Slight overreaction much? What the fuck was her deal today? And what the fuck was _breaking bad_? “’M just saying, you must blow a fortune on underwear, man.” Good, play it cool, Vegeta. We don’t care, we’re just being neighborly.

“I’m not a man, and I didn’t ask for your advice, and I can blow my money on whatever I damn well please!” she shouted back at him, turning to face him full on with her fury, pointing an accusing finger at his chest.

His eyebrows rose up, amazed at her ire. Baffled by it. _What the hell was going on_? “…Yeah, fine. Whatever.”

She huffed, glaring at him, not pleased by his sudden appeasement. She eyed him critically, searching for something, anything, before her eyes finally alighted on his industrial ammonia. She scrunched up her nose in disgust, snarling. “And that smells fucking awful,” she spat, her shoulders squaring in triumph.

He sneered at her, leaning in threateningly. He was _done_ with her shit. “ _Deal with it_.”

“You deal with it!” she shot back hotly.

Vegeta scoffed. “That doesn’t even make any fucking sense. What the fuck is up your butt? Are you on the rag or are you always this cunty?”

She thinned her mouth, her hands fisting around her ruined underwear and then- her eyes started to water, and he was pretty sure her chin trembled.

Vegeta reeled back, his eyes widening in horror. Oh god, no, fuck, was she… was she about to _cry_?

She glared at him fiercely through shimmering eyes, but her voice was small and broken when she finally spoke. “… C-can I have some?” she asked, indicating his ammonia.

Desperate to have nothing to do with tears, Vegeta hastily shoved the bottle at her.

She lowered her eyes and took it, adding the liquid to her laundry.

He watched her with trepidation, sweating, his throat dry. What the hell, what the _hell_ was going on? She didn’t usually crumble like this under a few harsh words.

“Do you have any of that… other stuff?” she asked, her voice subdued.

“Vinegar?”

“Yeah.”

He handed it over and she added that to the machine, then set her laundry to run again. She gave him back his bottles with a mumbled thanks, and then retreated to plop down on the nearby bench, slouched, watching her clothes spin about all while looking tiny and miserable and forlorn.

 _It’s none of your goddamn business_ , he told himself. _Whatever her fucking deal is, it’s none of your goddamn business and you have nothing to be sorry about_. Of course not, because he never felt sorry about anything, not even for himself; bitter and angry, oh yes, he felt those in spades, but never sorry. 

He did his best to ignore her as he finished preparing his own laundry. He started the load, but he couldn’t help glancing at her _yet again_ from over his shoulder.

He could leave. He could leave and come back in 45 minutes and she would be gone.

His feet betrayed him, walking over to the bench and he sat down nearby.

Only the sounds of the washing machines filled the room.

_Plonk._

_Tumble_.

 _Whirl_ …

“D’you… wanna talk about it?” he asked, choking out the words through gritted teeth.

“No,” she said softly.

 _Ohthankgod_. 

Their clothing was tossed and tumbled, spun and swirled. A sidelong glance proved she wasn’t crying. Thank fuck. But she looked miserable, defeated, and her melancholy grated on his nerves more than her usual chipperness did.

He folded his fingers together, looking down at his palms, trying to think of something to take her mind off whatever was troubling her, because it was driving him up the goddamn wall. What did those 2 idiots always talk about? Fuck, he never listened to them. Okay, so, what did he like talking about? What the hell kind of question was that, he _didn’t_ like talking. Goddamnit, this was hard.

 _Oh, I know._ “… Wanna hear 30 ways you can kill someone with just a shoe lace?” he offered, turning to face her.

She gave him a very concerned look, her mouth parted in disgust. He frowned and looked away. Stuck up princess. It was a _good list_. Fuck her then. He wasn’t supposed to care anyway. Annoyed, Vegeta slumped back, resting his head on the wall, turned away from her, and folded his hands over his middle as he pretended to nap.

“… Sorry,” she finally said, and the only indication he gave that he heard was a furrowing of his brow. “It’s been a bad couple days. Didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

He grunted. What did a bad couple of days entail for someone like her? 

 _Do you actually want to know_?

No.

_No?_

No!

 _Liar_.

But it sounded like, whatever her issue was, it wasn’t because of him, and for some unknown reason that made him feel a little bit better.

The silence after that was more tolerable. 

When her washing machine beeped and she got up to check on her clothes, he peeled open his eyes to watch her. She pulled out her underwear and saw they were good as new. She smiled, the tension leaving her, her face softening in relief, leaving her looking relaxed and beautiful… His fingers tightened against his arms. He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of her.

“Told you so,” he said, unable to help himself or the smug satisfaction in his voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” she replied, her tone lighter, sounding much more like herself. 

When her clothes were done drying, he heard her walk out. “Thanks, Vegeta. I’ll catch you later then,” she called amiably.

Wait, no. His eyes flashed open but she’d already left.

No. Noooo….. Later? _Later_? No, _no_ later, he was supposed to have cut her off, ignored her, discouraged her, _not_ repaired whatever it was they had going on, _not_ given her hope, not, not….

FUCKING GOD FUCKING _DAMNIT._

 

XoxoX

 

She was everywhere. He ran into her in the hallway, on the stairs, again in the laundry room, and then, the cherry on the fucking shit cake, at the goddamn tiny half-assed grocery store he liked for the very reason that he figured no self respecting person he would know would ever be seen there.

But there she was, bright as you please, and of course she saw him instantly and made a big deal about what a coincidence it was and hung onto his arm as he shopped, chatting up a storm not only to him but to the bewildered clerk and _oh god I can never come back here again_.

He didn’t say a word to her. He’d learnt his lesson from the laundry room. 

They walked back to the apartments, the groceries he carried much heavier than usual from all the shit she’d thrown into his basket, insisting he try this or that, and he hadn’t had the energy to argue, not wanting to engage. She’d offered to help carry his things which he of course he’d refused because a) fuck her and b) he didn’t work out for nothing and c) get the fucking hint already, woman. But despite his broody scowl and lack of communication (which he would have patted himself on the back for if, you know, it was actually working), she still doggedly walked with him, talking his ear off about who the fuck knew what because he’d stopped listening, not trusting himself to pay attention lest his mouth speak of its own volition, and then she’d only be _encouraged_ and that was _precisely_ NOT what he wanted her to be right now.

She didn’t even get the hint when he tried to block her out as he unlocked his apartment. She just stood behind him, peeking over him, _her hands on his shoulders_ , and he couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling up in exasperation when she let out an excited squeal as his door swung open.

“Yay! Finally, I get to see your place!” 

He was fuming. This was _ridiculous_. He’d seen people accept their death faster than this chick was catching on to the fact that she wasn’t welcome.

He placed his bags down as she moved in behind him.

“…Oh,” she said, her voice softening, her enthusiasm waning. “…It’s… tidy?” she offered, trying to find something positive to say about the barren emptiness of his place. “You… don’t entertain much, do you?”

Vegeta felt his eye twitch and a vein in his temple throb and he had just about had enough of this. “Do I _look_ like I do?” he asked scathingly, finally turning around and confronting her. She was eyeing his place over, looking worried about the state of it and _how dare she_. Who the fuck was _she_ to judge _him_? Okay, no, he HAD had enough of this. He’d had MORE than enough of this. He was at his goddamn fucking _limit_ of dealing with her nosey scrutiny and the confusing swirl of emotions she evoked in him and he just wanted some _goddamn peace_ for like _five fucking minutes_ and if she didn’t leave RIGHT NOW he couldn’t promise that he wouldn’t do something he’d severely regret.

“Look, woman,” he snarled, grabbing her by the arm and looming over her so that she’d understand the severity of what he was about to say. “I KNOW you never listen to me, but for the last time: I don’t need friends, I don’t WANT friends, and unless you want to get in a lot of trouble or worse, get yourself KILLED, STOP. TRYING. TO GET. INTO MY LIFE.”

She was giving him wide doe eyes, looking small and contrite in the face of his onslaught, and _fuck her_ because it was making his stomach twist in a way it hadn’t since that time he’d eaten bad Mexican food. He grabbed her tiny shoulders and shoved her forcefully out of his open door before she could mess him up any further. 

“GOODBYE.”

He slammed the door shut with a mighty _WHAM_ and then rested his brow against it, letting out an aggravated sigh and waited for the sounds of her footsteps to indicate that she’d left. That she was gone, gone for good.

A tell tale silence only met his ears. He gritted his teeth, resting his hands on the door, straining his ears. He nearly jumped out of his skin when she spoke.

“A PLANT! _THAT’S_ what’s missing in there!” she announced decisively to the empty hall.

What. The Actual. Fuck.

“GODDAMNIT, BULMA, GO HOME!” he pleaded, his fingers curling against the door.

He heard her take a step and then pause. “… Wait, did you just say my name?” she asked.

Vegeta jumped back from the door and stared at it in abject horror.

He waited, heart thumping, sweating, as if afraid she could suddenly see him through the shut door. 

Finally, finally, he heard her footfalls as she left. He still couldn’t move, rooted to the spot.

It didn’t mean anything.

It didn’t _mean_ anything.

 _She_ didn’t mean anything. It was just a name, just her name… Just a name that he couldn’t even bring himself to _think_ let alone _use_ and yet there he’d gone, _using it_ around her as he’d begged her to leave…

Not told her. _Begged_ her. He, Vegeta. Begged.

It didn’t mean anything.

 _So why are you freaking the fuck out_?

He scowled and grabbed his keys and left, leaving his groceries on the floor. He didn’t know where he was going, but he had to get out, get as far away from her as he could.

Fuck her. Fuck this apartment. 

 _Fuck the whole goddamn world_.

 

XxoxX

 

He saw her the next day on the stairs, and his whole body went rigid in some sick pavlovian response, waiting for her attack. Great, she’d reduced him to a fucking psychology experiment. She smiled and waved and - and that was it. He scowled, watching warily as she kept going, not stopping to harass him as per usual. It was… surprisingly nice.

 _Suspiciously_ nice. That wasn’t her usual MO.

He saw her a few days later at the dinky grocery store (he’d forgotten to look for a new one), but she only said hello and then continued with her shopping. When he looked up from the milk section to see if she was still there, she wasn’t.

Huh.

He continued running into her, and though he braced himself each time, waiting for a verbal and physical onslaught, it didn’t come. She’d say hi, maybe ask how it was going, perhaps wave, always smiling. It was more than just cordial, more than she’d give a stranger, but she kept it brief, never lingered, and little by little he found himself less likely to flinch at the sight of her and more likely to nod in begrudging greeting as they passed each other in the hall.

“Hey,” she said as they shared the laundry room together one evening. He was leaning against the wall, half dozing as he waited for his clothes to wash. He peeled open an eye and regarded her. She smiled sweetly at him. “Don’t suppose you could keep an eye on my laundry for just a _tiny_ moment? I’ve got food cooking upstairs.”

He sneered. “What am I, your fucking guard dog?”

She rolled her eyes. “It’ll just be for a second. I mean, you’re already here, right? Just look intimidating if anyone tries to steal my panties.”

He scowled at her.

She winked. “Yeah, just like that. You’re a natural.”

She hurried off before he could protest further. He was tempted to end his washing early just so he could leave her laundry spitefully unattended, but he was comfortable, and doing so would only leave him with a basket full of wet clothes, and that would just be inconvenient for him, not her.

True to her word, she came back after a few minutes. She skipped over to his bench and sat down, handing him some tupperware. 

He looked at it blandly, not making any motions to accept it.

“Go on,” she goaded. “It’s payment, for watching my things while I made sure I didn’t burn the building down.”

He mulled that over, considering. Tit for tat, huh? He understood that concept. It made sense. And she hadn’t poisoned the last plate she’d given him. He supposed he could accept her food under those conditions. 

Reluctantly he sat up and took the container. He pried open the lid, looking inside.

“It’s soup, but with meat and potatoes, so, you know, it’s actually filling,” she explained.

It looked good. It smelt better. He shut the lid before he could appear too interested and put the container to his side for later.

“… You can keep the tupperware too,” she added after a couple of minutes, the memory of what had happened the last time he’d tried to return her cookware still hanging between them.

“Was planning on it,” he agreed.

 

XoxoX

 

She was starting to become routine. Expected. Seeing her, acknowledging her with the tiniest of nods or grunts, exchanging a word here or there over the washing machine or discounted store muffins was becoming as natural to him as stake outs and 2 am pummelings. 

“Can you believe they want $3 for a day old chocolate chip muffin?” she asked, appalled.

“Highway robbery,” he agreed.

“…”

“…”

“… There’s only 1 left.”

“Hn.”

“Wanna split it?”

“Yep.”

He sometimes heard her moving about in her apartment, soft sounds barely audible through the walls, just enough to remind him of her presence, remind him that she was right there, within reach, so tantalizing close, all he’d have to do is reach out knock and he knew, he _knew_ she’d invite him in and _that was the goddamn problem_.

Other times, her presence next door was like a goddamn bull in a china shop.

_“Mother fucking piece of SHIT! Argh!”_

And a few minutes later there’d be a knock on the door and he’d open it with an arched brow as she handed him a jar, blushing with humiliation. “I swear it’s glued on.”

“Uh-huh,” he drawled. He knew he should tell her to fuck off, to go find someone else to do her grunt work, but the look on her face as he took the jar and opened the lid with liquid ease, mocking her feebleness, made it _oh_ so worth it.

“… I loosened it for you,” she grumbled.

“Sure you did.” 

The next time she knocked on his door there was no jar, but she wore an embarrassed expression just the same. 

“What?” he greeted.

“Yeah, um, hey,” she said, rubbing her arm nervously. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but I kind of have a big favor to ask.”

Oh, this should be good. He folded his arms and resisted the temptation to say no, curious to hear her out at least before crushing her hopes. He leaned against his door frame and waited.

When she saw he was listening, she nervously tucked her short hair behind her ear, looking down at their feet. “I have to go to East side tomorrow.”

“East side?” he repeated, amused. The hell kind of business could _she_ possibly have over there?

She nodded. “Yeah, so, you see my predicament, right? I’d normally ask Goku or Kril-”

He waved away her explanation, not caring to hear about the useless friends who couldn’t help her. “Your point?”

“Yes,” she said, letting out a shaky breath. She steeled herself, setting a determined expression on her face before looking him right in the eyes. Brave girl. “Do you think you could accompany me so I don’t get mugged or murdered?”

He blinked. Then he smirked. And then, unable to help himself, he laughed.

Her brows shot up, stunned. “Wh-what’s so funny?” she asked carefully, her eyes narrowing, unsure if she was being made fun of.

He grinned at her, a little nasty, his body relaxing into the doorframe. “You want _me_ to take _you_ to East side?”

“Y-yes?”

He cocked his head, shaking it in dumb amazement, still smirking. “Alright,” he agreed smoothly.

“Alright?” she repeated, not sure she’d heard him right.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? What time?”

They made plans, Bulma looking almost uncertain of her decision, as she fucking well should have.

She’d just invited the most dangerous person in the whole damn block, if not the whole fucking city, to be her bodyguard. What a fucking joke! Although, upon reflection, perhaps it made a weird kind of sense because what would you have to be afraid of with the devil at your side? She was either really fucking stupid, or really fucking smart, and either way he found it quite hilarious. This was going to be oh so worth the inconvenience of putting up with her for an evening.

 

XxoxX

 

It was every bit as amusing as he’d hoped. He hadn’t been this entertained since… well, he couldn’t remember when, that’s how long it had been. Maybe since that one guy who he’d discovered had 6 fingers and hadn’t that been a treat, a whole two extra fingers he got to break?

Ah, the good ol’ days.

They took the subway together and by necessity she pressed up close to him in the crowded train, better him than some other dirty stranger rubbing against her, and he felt himself getting into the part of bodyguard a little too much, glaring more than was necessary at the other men when they looked at her. She was a beautiful woman, screaming upper-middle class and ‘easy target’.

He, on the other hand, screamed ‘I will break your fucking face just for looking at me funny’ in blood red neon lights. One look from him and everyone suddenly became a whole lot less interested in what Bulma was about. And she, of course, was fucking clueless to it all.

He didn’t ask what her errand in East side was and he didn’t care. He followed along and did what he did best, looking unpleasant and keeping an eye out for trouble, not that he figured they’d run into any. He was very familiar with the ‘bad’ side of town. _Please_. Like anything here was really _that_ bad, not after what he’d grown up with. 

“Um,” she said, tugging on his sleeve and insisting they cross the street when a small group of guys in hoodies come down the path. He snorted, rolling his eyes, but followed her good-naturedly. She kept her head down, letting her blue bangs hide her face, and she stayed pressed up against his side in a manner he might have found insufferable if he weren’t so amused by her timidness. Back at the apartments she was a firecracker, full of energy and bossy self assurance; seeing her out of her element, leaning on him, _needing_ him, was a whole new experience and he was lapping up every minute of it. He was going to enjoy throwing all this back in her face later at just the right opportunity.

The whole outing went smoothly and she did whatever the fuck it was she needed to do, but since they’d set out late, it was already pitch black by the time they headed home. They caught one of the last subways of the evening and their car was nearly empty save for a drunk sleeping in the far corner who got off several stops later. 

They sat together, staring at the inside of the subway car and the underground lights that flashed by.

“Thanks for doing this,” she said, her voice soft despite being just the two of them. 

“You owe me,” he replied, blunt as usual. He planned on cashing in this favor, and he wanted to make real fucking sure she didn’t forget it.

She laughed. “Yeah, I do,” she agreed. “Got something in mind?” she asked with a mischievous curl of her mouth.

He grunted and looked away. “I’ll let you know.”

He felt something nudge his middle. Looking down, he saw it was her elbow. “C’mon, admit it. I wasn’t that bad to hang out with, was I?”

“Hn,” he replied noncommittally. 

She pouted. “Spoil sport.”

He looked at her as she was about to say something when the power suddenly went out. The train careened to a stop and he braced himself either side of her to keep them from falling. She let out a cry of alarm and grabbed him as she was flung against his arm. In the sudden pitch black darkness, the only thing that was real was her panicked breathing in his ear, and her slender warmth against him.

“Vegeta?” she asked, her tone a couple octaves higher than usual.

“It’s okay, just a power outage,” he said, glancing around, trying to see anything, trying to hear anything, wary of an attack… But there was nothing. “The back up power should kick in any-”

There was a faint hum and tiny red lights fluttered to life about them, casting the car in an eerie glow. Bulma clung to his shirt, huddled against him nervously. Her eyes locked on his, and all thoughts of self preservation fled his mind as he was filled with an irrational urge to make sure _she_ was okay.

Physically.

He lightly touched her arm. “Are you alright?”

An overhead voice crackled on the speakers, the driver of the train announcing a power failure, telling everyone not to panic and to sit and wait.

Bulma sighed and to his bewilderment, her fingers unclenched from his shirt and she let him go, sitting back. “Oh thank god,” she said.

He frowned, feeling like something had just escaped through his fingers and he awkwardly retracted his hand, taking her cue and sitting back at her side, trying to puzzle out the strange feeling of… rejection?

 _Dumb. You’re a dumb dumb, fuck, Vegeta…_  

He glared around the car, suddenly impatient, feeling claustrophobic and cagey. He shouldn’t have ever agreed to this. He could be doing any one of a million other things better than this right now like…

Like…

Okay, so he was drawing a blank but that didn’t mean there weren’t better things he could be doing than babysitting Little Miss Girl Next Door, was there?

“Man, Chi Chi is going to be pissed,” Bulma sighed, checking the time.

“Who?” he asked, because why not? What else were they fucking going to do, and she was probably going to tell him all about it anyway, regardless of whether or not he asked. 

“My friend, Chi Chi, you’d like her,” she said, and he snorted doubtfully. “She runs this amazing Chinese restaurant. I was supposed to meet her after closing.”

And that’s how it happened, that she started telling him about her laundry list of rather insane friends, most of whom he didn’t really bother to remember. He sat and stared up at the subway car’s ceiling and listened to her talk, not to her words exactly but to _her_ , to the sound of her voice and her exuberance. She actually had this lovely, enthusiastic way of speaking that had aggravated him at first but now seemed such an integral part of her personality that he couldn’t help finding it just a little bit endearing.

She said something about France and he grunted. “Been there,” he admitted, remembering an assignment a few years back. Then he realized she’d stopped talking.

He tilted his head to the side to eye her.

She was looking at him expectantly. “Really? And?”

He frowned and looked away, slumping further in his seat, trying to remember, remember the parts that she’d probably want to hear and not the parts about the sewers and the corruption and the black market shenanigans he’d been wrapped up in. It made his story uncomfortably brief, but she seemed rapt by the glimpse into his past and it felt oddly… liberating, letting the darkness shroud him as he told her about it, as if discussing baguettes and cobblestoned alleyways absolved him of some of the atrocities he’d commited there. As if telling her all this made the bad parts fade and the few good parts shine and it was really fucking novel having a captive audience for once, one that wasn’t captivated by how and when he was going to kill them, but because she actually _gave a damn_.

Huh.

“Were you alone?” she pressed when he came to a halt.

“What?”

“Did you travel there with friends or family?” she asked. 

“No.” He hadn’t been working alone, not the whole time, but the people he’d associated with fit neither of those categories. 

She hummed, intrigued. “And what about now?”

“What about now?”

“Are you here alone, in the city? What about your friends?”

He gave her an incredulous look. Him. _Friends_? Had she even been paying attention to him all these weeks? _He_ having _friends_ , what an absurd notion, like anyone gave a fuck about him. Like _he_ gave a fuck about others. Who could be bothered with _friends_? And who would be _dumb_ enough to want to be friends with him anyhow? Who would put up with his violent bouts and raging tirades and insufferable ego? Who would actually say hi to him with a genuine fucking smile, or spend time with him _willingly_ , or talk to him of their _own volition_ , or give him gifts or ask him favors or… oh right. “Just your dumb ass,” he said, meaning for it to be an insult until he saw the way her eyes widened and her mouth split into an elated smile and he realized what he’d just admitted to.

Oh no…

Oh fuck no…

“Fuck, that’s not what I mean-”

“Yes it was!” she squealed and his eyes bugged out of his head as she opened her arms and _came at him_ and he held out a hand to stop her.

“The hell are you doing?!” he demanded, panicking.

“I’m going to hug you.”

“No. No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am, Vegeta. We can argue about this until you get blue in the face and then I’m _still_ going to hug you, or you could just let it happen and get it over with. _Friend_.”

He grit his teeth, giving her an incredulous glare but he saw that she was determined and the last thing he wanted was to have her stalking him, trying to secretly hug him when he least suspected it, because then he was more than likely going to shoot her thinking she was a rival gang member coming to get the drop on him, and it would really suck to shoot the only friend he had.

Yes. Friend. Ew, fuck.

 _You’re such a pussy_.

He sighed and dropped his arm and she hugged him, wrapping her arms around him. 

_Ba-bom._

His arms stuck out awkwardly either side and he sat rigid in her embrace, not having the slightest clue what to do, his face scrunched in unease.

It was, after all, his first hug.

_Ba-bom._

“If our roles were reversed I’m pretty sure you’d be shouting rape right now,” he grouched uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at her.

“If our roles were reversed, I’d be returning the hug by now, dumbass.”

“Oh.”

_Ba-bom._

He lifted his arms, his hands hovering uncertainly at her back. He swallowed, feeling perspiration prickle at his skin, and he hoped the air was still working because he didn’t fancy suffocating to death in a hot subway car. He placed his hands uncertainly on her back, covering most of her frame with his large, splayed hands. God she was small.

She let out a content sigh, her breath puffing against his nape.

_Ba-bom!_

He held her, filled with doubts and enveloped in her warmth. Was he doing it right? He’d never _held_ someone before, couldn’t even remember if he’d ever touched someone kindly before. But she seemed happy, tightening her hold on him just a little, squeezing him generously and pressing her lithe, feminine weight into his chest, and fraction by fraction, he relaxed against her.

_Ba-bom…_

And allowed himself to admit that it was actually, really, fucking goddamn _nice_.

Like her.

She was really, fucking nice.

And he didn’t deserve it.

_Ba-bom._

And he knew it wouldn’t last. Suddenly covetous, he changed his grip, wrapping the full length of his arms around her body and he crushed her closer against him, pressing his face into her shoulder. Soon the lights would come on and the subway would start up and whatever this moment was would end, the car taking them back to reality and fuck it, he wasn’t ready for that yet.

“Vegeta?”

“Mm?” he mumbled against her.

“This is a _really_ nice hug.”

_Ba-bom!_

“… If you say so.”

“How long until the power comes back on?”

“No fucking idea.”

“… I really have to pee.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake…”

 

XoxoX

 

The rocking of the car as the subway started moving jerked him awake. He blinked open his eyes, looking around to see them break out from the underground, moving along the tracks by the cityscape, the night lights twinkling prettily behind the dirty, graffitied subway windows.

She was sleeping on his shoulder, her soft hair tickling his cheek, and he resisted rubbing against it. The speakers crackled and the driver announced, superfluously, that they were moving again and apologized for the extensive delay. He felt her stir, the announcement disturbing her rest.

“’We there yet?” she murmured sleepily.

“Nope. Just started up again,” he sighed, letting his eyes drift closed and he leant his head comfortably against hers. 

He was already falling back asleep when he felt something in his hand that rested on his knee. He cracked open his eyes and saw she’d taken his fingers in her own, holding his hand. He should shove her away, shove her off, they had the whole fucking car to themselves after all to stretch out and sleep the rest of the way back so she didn’t need to be curled _right up on him_ … but he was too tired, and they were all alone, unseen, and he just… didn’t even care at this point so long as she didn’t move and let him sleep.

 _Or maybe you care too much_.

Shut up, me.

He closed his eyes, and the rocking of the car soon lulled him back asleep.

 

XoxoX

 

He recognized the note paper immediately.

_Vegeta, I’m glad you’re not as cuddly as a cactus. Thanks for helping me out the other day. How does coffee sound?_

He looked at the spiky green plant with the pert little flower on top and didn’t know what to think. There was a label stuck in the soil with the plants name and care information, and on it she’d crossed out _rose quartz_ and written _Mr. Grinch_. 

Real fucking cute.

He cast her door a glance and took the plant inside.

 

XoxoX

 

“So, this’s the crib that Frieza put you up in? Seems pretty well hidden,” Raditz said with an air of feigned interest as he barely glanced about.

“Yup, good spot to hide from the pigs when I’m done with a mission,” Vegeta replied as they settled into his place. “Okay, so who are we killing this time, Raditz?”

Raditz didn’t answer right away. Vegeta saw what had caught his attention.

“…What. Is _that_?” Raditz asked flatly, pointing a distrustful finger at the cactus.

“Oh, that?” Vegeta asked, puffing up with the chance to _finally_ be able to talk about it. “That’s a Chamaelobivia Rose Quartz.”

Raditz stared at him, not reacting.

“It’s a GIFT. From a FRIEND. That I made without having to threaten ANYONE.”

Boom. Bomb shell _dropped,_ motherfucker.

“…You sound like a 5-year-old starting kindergarten.”

Vegeta felt the air fizzle out of him. That had _not_ been the reaction he’d been looking for.

“Is she hot?” Raditz asked.

Vegeta felt himself go very cold and still, his eyes narrowing.

Raditz visibly paled and he hurriedly pulled out his cell phone. “S-so, tonight,” he stammered and started going over the details. Vegeta barely listened, tapping his arm in impatience the entire time, suddenly a lot less enthusiastic about this hit than he should have been. 

 

 

~~ox0xo~~

 

 **AN** : This was LONG. And took FOREVER. 

Some clever people might have noticed a numbering system. Hopefully that’ll help with where all these chapters fit in together since I’ve been writing them out of sequence (& may need to be updated as I go), but the best source will always be with stupidoomdoodle’s comic Girl Next Door over on smackjeeves.

 

DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is stupidoomdoodles’ idea. Find both her and I on twitter, tumblr.


	4. GND - 03 Denial (w/ FANART)

**_NB:_ ** _Based on_ **_chapter 1, ‘Different Backgrounds’/ Change of Heart_ ** _and_ **_chapter 2, ‘Friendly Concerns’_ ** _of the_ **_“Girl Next Door”_ ** _(aka FriendsAU) comic by_ **_stupidoomdoodles. _ **

 

**Girl Next Door**

**03- Denial** _[after 'Prickly', before 'Handsy']_

 

“Barstrucks?” he asked, staring up at the green, glowing sign over the sidewalk.

She nodded. “Yep. Wait… have you never been to one before?” 

There was more than one? “Uh… no?”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and she shook her head. “I thought you said you liked coffee?”

He frowned, uncomfortable. Fuck, was this going to be another one of those things he didn’t know about? “I do…”

“But you’ve never been to Barstrucks?”

He gave her an agitated look. “I thought we’d established that already,” he snapped.

“That’s just a crime,” she said, and she grabbed his arm and dragged him inside. They waited in line, Bulma staring up at the menu on the blackboard over the barristers, while he eyed the clientele warily.

“What kind of coffee do you like?” she asked.

“ _Kind_?” There were different _kinds_?

She tore her eyes from the menu and gave him a pained look.

He returned it, just as pained. Jesus Christ, how was getting coffee becoming such a fucking trial? 

“Okay,” she said, trying to be patient. “Why not get a seasonal flavor, you know, for fun.”

He felt his cheek twitch at the word. It would seem their ideas of ‘fun’ vastly differed. “Sure,” he said begrudgingly, deciding to indulge her, if only to get this whole fiasco over and done with faster. 

“Do you like pumpkin spice?” she suggested as they moved forward in the line.

“In _coffee_?” he asked, incredulous. Who the fuck put a _vegetable_ in _coffee_? What the hell _was_ this place? He was starting to wonder if what he thought was coffee was even really coffee, because at this point, who the fuck knew? Nothing made sense when she was around. Maybe they weren’t even talking about the same drink, maybe it wasn’t even a drink at all. But that couldn’t be right because he _bought_ coffee from the dinky little market, and it clearly said _coffee_ on the packaging and he was pretty sure he’d seen Nappa and Raditz drink the stuff too, usually in those white paper cups with the stupid green logo on the side that said-

Oh. _Barstrucks_. So that’s why it had sounded familiar.

“Yes in coffee,” Bulma was replying, looking utterly offended. “My god, Vegeta, just how big is the rock you live under?”

“Not big enough to keep you out,” he grumbled. She made a face and elbowed him in the side.

Like he knew she would. He smirked.

 _More like you_ hoped _she would_. Aaaand smile gone…

He scowled, embarrassed with himself, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his hoodie, glaring up at the menu. They stepped forward and were now at the front of the line. Thankfully Bulma ordered for him. He tried to pay but she pushed his hand back and handed over her card.

“I’m paying you back for escorting me, remember?” she said, pulling him to the side where they could wait for their coffees. He grunted and leaned against the bar.

He watched as their drinks were made, and before he could complain that it was taking too fucking long, two drink carriers with 4 cups each were handed to them. Bulma gave him one while she took the other and lead them over to a small table for two by the window.

“Are we expecting company?” he asked, staring with bemusement at all the drinks. _Oh please don’t be company…_

She laughed. “No. But you don’t know what you like, so I figured we could try them all.”

He stared at her like she was fucking insane.

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not insane, Vegeta.”

Okay. That… was a little unnerving. The notion that she’d just read his mind had him dropping down in the seat opposite her, and only a healthy skepticism of the supernatural reassured him that she couldn’t _actually_ read his thoughts.

That, and she would have run far from him a long time ago if she could.

“Pumpkin spice latte,” she announced cheerily, handing over one of the cups and Vegeta eyed it warily. He supposed it could be trusted, he had been watching them make the drinks the whole time… He popped off the lid and sniffed, his nose scrunching at how sickeningly sweet the drink smelt. He looked up and she was watching him with such big, eager eyes that he found himself taking a resigned sip despite his better instincts.

Oh

Dear

God…. It was _awful_.

He managed to refrain from gagging only by extreme force of will, and he put the cup down, gently sliding it back towards her. “I think they made it wrong,” he gritted out.

“What? Oh no,” she said, her face falling. She took a sip and her face transformed into confusion. “Uh, Vegeta… it tastes perfectly fine.”

“There’s nothing _perfectly fine_ about _that_ ,” he replied scathingly. For the love of Christ, the taste was still all in his mouth.

“Well then, I guess that’s a _no_ on the pumpkin spice. You’re _wrong_ , but whatever,” she said. She kept the drink for herself and gestured at the others. “What do you want to try next?”

“No,” he said flatly.

“What do you mean, no?”

“If they’re all like that, I think I’ll just pass.” For fuck’s sake, he wasn’t a guinea pig.

“But…” she said, her voice trailing off. He saw her frown, frustrated, looking at the drinks in dismay, and he looked at them also. There were eight of them, all of which she had probably tried before because apparently everyone and their mother came to Barstrucks, everyone except _him_. Which meant the drinks were for him; tit for tat, for having taken her to East Side, and he was just going to throw that back in her face because he was a miserable, suspicious, ungrateful asshole.

Vegeta sighed and picked up another cup at random. “What’s this?” he asked, his tone beleaguered. 

She gave him a hopeful smile. “Cinnamon hot chocolate.”

He cocked a brow and sniffed the drink. It was achingly familiar, making him think of a certain blue haired neighbor who had reeked of the stuff at christmas. His eyes darted to her as he sipped it.

Pleasant. It was warm and smooth and didn’t make his teeth ache despite the sweetness. He supposed he could stomach this one.

“What do you think?” she asked eagerly, leaning forward in her pretty, low cut dress, watching his face in a way that was a little unnerving, making him feel terribly exposed so he brought the cup back up for another sip just to hide behind it.

“S’kay,” he said, feeling churlish.

Her grin widened despite his tone. “Yeah, that’s one of my favorites too.”

“Hn… what else we got?”

The rest of the drinks were tolerable. Okay, _more_ than tolerable, each one a vast improvement over the vomit-inducing pumpkin spice that she was somehow enjoying. Bulma talked to him the whole time in that easy way of hers, ensnaring him in her web or tales and drawing out answers from him he didn’t even know he had, all the while feeding him drink after drink and asking for his opinion that he candidly gave. She ordered more when they were done taste testing the first eight, because apparently they hadn’t even scratched the surface of what Barstrucks had to offer yet. The long afternoon sun slanted through the window, heating the glass and their table, and between that warmth and the hot drinks and her charming way of speaking, Vegeta relaxed, not noticing time slipping by.

“So if you _had_ to get a tattoo, what would it be?” she asked conversationally.

He scoffed. “I _have_ a tattoo.”

“You’ve got a tattoo?!” she exclaimed, leaning forward half way across the table in shock. Anticipation. 

“Yup,” he replied, not really seeing what the big deal was. He looked at her, seeing the odd, assessing way she regarded him.

“… Is it a butterfly?” she asked.

Sometimes he wondered why he put up with her at all. “…See, this is the kind of comment that reminds me we both come from very different backgrounds.” 

She gave him a wicked smirk. “What? I bet you’d look good with a butterfly,” she said, her eyes trailing over him, as if trying to imagine a butterfly tattoo somewhere on his body.

Something about her lurid gaze had him feeling all sorts of… things.

“I’m not getting a butterfly tattoo, Blue.”

She pouted. “Spoil sport.” She sipped her drink, then reached out and tugged on the front of his hoodie. “Okay, so, if not a tattoo, how about a new shirt? Honestly, do you only shop at Thugs R Us?” she asked with a grin.

They were interrupted by the buzzing of his phone.

It was ringing. His phone only rang for one reason. 

Oh well… So much for their date.

Wait, what?

Okay, _ignoring that…_

He put his cup down and stood up. “That’s work. I have to go.”

Her fingers fell away and he saw her smile grow wooden, forced. She lowered her eyes but not before he saw the flicker of disappointment. “Oh, of course…” 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck… Okay, just… ignore that. This doesn’t matter, she doesn’t matter, you’ve got work to do, so… just stand up, say goodbye, and soon you’ll be listening to someone beg miserably for their life, perhaps even make a pathetic attempt at fighting back, isn’t that always fun?

_No._

No? The fuck, that shit’s _hysterical_. 

_Please. That got old years ago…_

Well, okay, but… it’s a goddamn sight better than sitting in this yuppie hell hole, being hand fed drinks like a fucking prince, waited on by the prettiest woman in the whole damn place who also happens to be the only person who gives you the time of fucking day because… that’s just… that’s just awful… isn’t it? Right. I mean… Who’d want that when you could be searching some unwashed, fat fuck’s corpse for the money he owes Frieza, right. Right? Ha ha ha… Fuck my life…

… Fuck.

He glanced at her, hesitating. She was looking out the window, watching the leaves shift in the wind, her chin resting forlornly in her hand. He imagined walking out, just leaving her there with her table full of mugs, an empty chair across from her, all alone, abandoned.

And more than that, he imagined leaving her, and it felt like he’d be leaving a part of him with her.

And for the first time in, perhaps ever, Vegeta made a choice for himself. He sat back down. He texted Raditz to take care of it for _fucking once you useless piece of shit_ , and then turned his phone off, shoving it back in his pocket, and picked up a new drink.

“What’s this one?” he asked, shoving down the fear that he’d actually _turned his phone off_ and hoped to God no one important tried calling back because there’d be some serious hell to pay then.

She looked at him, her brow raised in surprise, assessing him. He waited, looking back at her unflinchingly, the steam from his mug rising between them like a swirling snake of uncertainty.

“… It’s chai.”

He tried it, his eyes staying on hers, and something in their blue depths eased the twisting in his gut. “Hn. Good.” It wasn’t. 

Her face smoothed into a smile. He put the drink down and she reached out, pushing her fingers between his, holding his hand, her skin so powder soft he wanted to rub his fingertips all over it, marvel at it, imprint the memory of it deep into his subconscious so that it could stay with him forever. He tried not to overthink it when he squeezed her hand back.

* * *

~XoxoxX~

 

“BULMA!” He slammed his fist into her door for what felt like the fiftieth time, but he still heard nothing. She was late. Again. God _damn it that stupid, lazy bitch._

“I WILL LEAVE WITHOUT YOU, WOMAN, SO HELP ME!” he shouted, slamming on the door again. 

He looked at his watch and winced. If they didn’t leave soon they were going to miss the subway. He’d found out by accident that she needed to take the same train as him in the mornings. He’d been standing inside the subway doors one day when she’d come careening in, out of breath and a mess, barely slipping through the doors before they’d snicked shut. They’d never realized before that they travelled the same way because she was either a) late or b) in a different car from him. But now that he knew he’d for some unknown reason taken it upon himself to be her fucking _nanny_ , trying to motivate her to get up on fucking time.

 _Why do you even care_?

I don’t.

 _Oh my god man, if you were in any more denial, you’d be Zarbon at a strip club_.

Vegeta bashed on the door one more time, and reached down to give the handle a frustrated shake - 

\- Only for it to turn open.

The door swung in, and Vegeta looked at it in mounting horror.

She hadn’t locked her door.

She _hadn’t locked_ her _fucking door…_ Was she _insane_? Did she _want_ to get robbed, or raped, or murdered? Did she have any fucking idea, _any_ idea how fucking easy it would be for someone to hurt her? Did she have ANY CONCEPT AT ALL of what someone dangerous, someone like _him_ or his people could do to someone so small and fragile and helpless as her. Did she?

DID SHE?!

NO, SHE FUCKING _DIDN’T_. Well, she was about to…

Filled with a righteous fury that was fueled by the stress of being late (and Vegeta _loathed_ being late), he let himself into her place and looked around. He only glanced about, having seen it all before when she’d asked him to fix her window and then suggested he stay for dinner. It had only taken a bit of muscle to get her window to unjam, just a few seconds out of his day, and so dinner had seemed like an excessive way to say thank you. But Vegeta wasn’t nearly nice enough to turn down a free, home cooked meal, so he’d stayed, and ate, and was now familiar with the chaotic mess that was Bulma’s apartment.

A cursory look told him that she wasn’t there. Which could only mean she was in the bedroom or adjoining bathroom. He pressed his ear to her door and heard the faint sounds of the shower running. He let himself in to her room.

He turned off the lights, sat on her bed, and waited.

A couples minutes later the door to the bathroom opened, and she paused, surprised that her room was dark.

He turned the lamp on.

She screamed, jumping back. She clutched at her heart, wearing only a towel, and after processing the situation, stomped her foot, glaring at him furiously. “VEGETA?! WHAT THE _HELL_?!”

“I should be saying the same fucking thing!” he said. “You didn’t lock your door.”

“Oh my GOD, you gave me a heart attack!” she said, crouching down on the floor to gather herself from the shock. 

His jaw worked. “Well… good. Remember this the next time you shut your door, and _lock it_ , for fuck’s sake…” he felt his anger wash out of him, seeing her hunched miserably on the floor, bringing a hand up to cover her face. Her fingers were trembling.

Oh… oh no…

Feeling suddenly very awkward, Vegeta swallowed and went over to her. He crouched before her and… didn’t know what else to do. What a fucking shock. Vegeta, meet feelings, feelings, meet Vegeta, a clueless fucking moron.

“Uh… are you okay?”

“No, I’m _not_ okay!” she screamed back, and she looked up at him, her face twisted in anger. Oh good, she wasn’t cryi-

“Ow!” he grunted as she punched him right in the chest, knocking him back on his ass. 

“You scared me half to death, asshole!”

He stared at her, stunned. Then her words sunk in and he scowled. “That was the idea, _genius_.”

“Get OUT of my apartment, Vegeta!” she huffed, standing up. “God, could you try doing one thing in your life that isn’t messed up or creepy?”

He stood up, dusting himself off, throwing her an agitated look. “Yeah, whatever. See if I fucking help you when someone breaks into your place because you can’t even use the goddamn deadlock.”

“OUT!”

He left, turning the lock before shutting the front door behind him. He let out a long, agitated breath to try and calm down, which was immediately undone when he checked the time. He swore vehemently; he’d already missed the train. He texted Nappa to send him the address of his first assignment so that he could go straight there, and headed out, casting her door one last irritated glance before leaving.

* * *

~XoxoxX~

 

 The fluorescent bulb flickered overhead, buzzing harshly, throwing the room into strips of sterile light and lengthened shadows. The man on the floor was trembling, babbling nonsense that Vegeta was giddily drinking up. He fisted his hands in the old guy’s shirt, making sure he had every inch of the worthless geezer’s attention. It had been a rough morning, and Vegeta was itching to take it out on this sorry sonovabitch.

“SO YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD ‘FORGET’ FRIEZA’S MONEY?! YOU KNOW THAT’S GONNA COST YOU YOUR WORTHLESS LIFE, RIGHT?!!”

“No, please don’t!” the man begged. They all did. _Hilarious_.

“Oh, I’m going to enjoy this,” Vegeta clenched the man’s shirt tighter, his hands trembling in anticipation, adrenalin. He was going to beat the man stupid, break him piece by piece until he told Vegeta everything he wanted to know, and then Vegeta was going to beat him some more until he was covered up to his elbows in blood, a familiar sign of a job well done. He prolonged the moment, waiting to see it in the man’s eyes, waiting for that special moment when denial became fear, that acute kind of fear when they accepted their own horrifying mortality, when they saw not Vegeta, but Death come to collect.

The old man’s eyes shone brightly with terror. 

His eyes were disturbingly blue.

_\- God, -_

“Oh please…” the asshole begged.

_-could you try doing one thing in your life-_

“…please don’t kill me…”

_\- that isn’t messed up or creepy?-_

Vegeta’s hands were losing their strength, and the delighted sneer of pleasure on his face was fading, falling, along with his will.

_The fuck are you doing?_

… This is fucking sad.

_Of course it is. You get off on that._

Do I?

 _You used to, until_ she _came along._

She’s got nothing to do with this.

 _She’s got_ everything _to do with this. She’s made you soft. She’s got in your head. See, this is why you’re not supposed to interact with people. This is how it starts. You need to put an end to it. It’s simple, listen. Take your hand. Make a fist. Raise it high above your useless,_ fucking _head, and then_ smash it _into this miserable cunt’s face until his GODDAMN SKULL CAVES IN!_

“No… she’d be… disappointed…”

And it only then occurred to him that he didn’t even _have_ to kill this guy. Just get the money by any means necessary, those were the instructions. Since when had ‘any means necessary’ become synonymous for ‘murder this jerk as brutally as possible’?

 _Since when do you care_?

“Wha-what…?”

Vegeta blinked, the man’s terrified simpering snapping him out of his trance. He looked down at him, angry, embarrassed. “I’M STILL BREAKING YOUR LEGS, THOUGH!”

“A-alright, alright!”

He did have a job to do after all.

* * *

~XoxoxX~

 

“So… Raditz and I noticed you were in quite a good mood lately.”

Oh no. No, no, no, they were _not_ having this conversation right now. Was Nappa fucking serious? “No idea what you’re talking about,” Vegeta said in a tone that he hoped would shut the matter up. He rolled his shoulder, getting a better grip on the rifle, waiting for their target to slip into view.

“Well, you kinda whistled on the way here. And it wasn’t the Jaws theme for once.”

God fucking _damnit_ , Nappa. You piece of prying shit. “Had a song stuck in my head.” What had he been whistling? He didn’t even remember. That was a little disturbing, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Nappa of all fucking people.

“And you laughed,” Nappa added, getting into a roll now. “I’ve never seen you laugh, and I’ve known you since you were 5.”

Fuck. That he did remember. They’d driven through East Side and it had reminded him of his excursion with Bulma and the memory had brought a laugh from him before he could quell it. “Thought of a new funny way to kill someone with a shoe lace.” 

There was a pregnant pause. Huh, he must have bought it-

“…Vegeta. Did you meet a girl?”

Fucking _hell_.

They both knew the answer to that question, because Nappa wouldn’t be asking if he didn’t already know. Which meant they’d been fucking _spying_ on him. The fury that he felt was instantaneous, and cataclysmic _._ “Nappa, if you don’t drop the subject, I promise your name will be in the papers tomorrow,” he said, speaking low so that the outrage in his words wouldn’t carry and give them away.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Smug. Fucking. Bastard.

Vegeta waited, seething. Silence. He scowled, his fingers tightening dangerously over the weapon’s trigger. Calm down, calm down, you can deal with this later…

“Target sighted,” Nappa murmured. 

Vegeta let out a long breath, dispelling his rage, waiting…

Waiting…

The target slipped past his sight. Vegeta aimed, confirmed, and fired.

He was packing up the sniper before anyone even screamed.

“Boom. Headshot,” Nappa drawled, and Vegeta froze at the familiar words, words _he_ usually said after a perfect snipe. Only he hadn’t.

 _Oh no_ …

“Vegeta. You’re slipping,” Nappa said flatly. “I’ve noticed it, Raditz has noticed it. It’ll only be a matter of time until Frieza notices it too, pal.”

Vegeta turned on Nappa, looked him right in the eye. “And how would he, Nappa, unless someone tells him?”

Nappa stared back at him unwaveringly.

Ah. Well then. So _that’s_ how it was fucking going to be. He should have known that a loyalty to a long dead crime lord would only extend so far to his shit stain of a son. Vegeta had known the bald asshole most of his life, but Nappa had never been family, didn’t even qualify as a friend, either; he’d been a shadow, a hulking ghost who’d haunted his formative years, watching him but never watching _over_ him, standing idly by as others molded Vegeta, tormented him, toyed with him, all the while saying nothing, _doing_ _nothing_. Sure, Nappa might have slapped on some bandages now and then, helped him to kill a lot of people, even had his back in a fight, but he’d never _helped_ him, never guided him or taken on the reigns of a fatherly figure, had never shown much interest in Vegeta beyond that which was necessary to carry out the mission. At best, Nappa was an annoying, know-it-all _butler_. That’s how it had always been, and Vegeta had never questioned it, but now he dug away at the scab of their relationship and he realized there was a large, festering wound of mutual loathing and disappointment between them.

Vegeta fucking _despised_ him.

“Stay out of my life, Nappa, or I will fucking shoot you.” He shoved the sniper case at Nappa to take since that’s all he was fucking good for, and walked out, shoulder checking the man as he left.

“She’s changed you.”

“ _Fuck off_.”

“D’you need a ride?”

“I’ll take the subway.”

If he was lucky, she might be on it.

The train was crowded, filled with people traveling home from work. He checked his watch, and it lined up with the time she usually got back. There was a very good chance she’d be here.

He stalked through the cars, pushing irritably through the throngs of civilians, scouting about for her blue hair.

He finally spotted her. She was standing up, holding onto a pole, her eyes closed, gently rocking back and forth with the rhythm of the car.

It infuriated him. She made herself out to be such an easy target, he could have pick-pocketed her in his sleep. He stormed over to her, filled with a rage at her naivety. How dare she not take better care of herself? How dare she make him worry? How dare she crawl under his skin, get into his head, affect him so drastically that even fucking Raditz and Nappa were calling him out on it, like they were somehow fucking perfect.

He raised his hand, ready to wrap it around her throat and choke her until she was nothing but a blip in his history, a small road bump in his otherwise perfect track record…

His hand wrapped around the pole above hers, and she opened her eyes, noticing him. She smiled broadly, her face lighting up. “Hey tough guy, good day?”

“Hn.”

“Yeah, me too.”

They stood together, bumping into each other as the car rocked back and forth. She looked tired, the ends of her bangs hanging coyly over her eyes. He resisted the urge to brush them back. He could feel his heart beating hard in his chest, still upset from his interaction with Nappa, with himself, with her, with life.

Fuck Nappa. He hadn’t changed. Or maybe he had, but so fucking what? He wasn’t allowed that? He wasn’t allowed a goddamn friend? What was so world shattering wrong with the idea that he could have one fucking good thing in his life to alleviate all the other crap he had to otherwise put up with?

She yawned and rested her cheek on his shoulder, closing her eyes, using him as a standing pillow. He scowled down at her, his hand gripping the pole so tightly his knuckles turned white. 

And something insidious and warm curled around his heart.

 _See, it’s shit like this that has Nappa fucking questioning your sanity_.

Fuck off. She’s just a friend.

 _Friends?_ Just _friends…?_

He fought back a rising sense of panic, not ready to face that can of worms yet. The car swayed, and he wrapped his hand about her middle, holding her close so that she didn’t get thrown about. She melded happily against him, and he pressed his face into her hair, smelling her, soaking in her warmth, trying to alleviate the wild thudding of his heart against the soothing balm of her presence. He looked up from over her head, glaring at everyone else in the car, daring anyone to say anything, his fingers curling possessively about her.

No one did.

* * *

~~ox0xo~~

* * *

**AN:** You know who’s great? [Stupidoomdoodles](http://stupidoomdoodles.tumblr.com/), that’s who. Go tell her that, seriously. 

....This most incredible fanart by [Rutbisbe](http://rutbisbe.tumblr.com/):

[ ](http://s1079.photobucket.com/user/ladyvegeets/media/OtherFanart/rutbisbe_Denial_GirlNextDoor_zpstjdytluc.jpg.html)

_DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is stupidoomdoodle’s idea. I’m just playing in their sandboxes. Stupidoomdoodles and LadyVegeets can be found on_ **_twitter_ ** _,_ **_tubmlr_ **_. Girl Next Door comic can also be found on_ **_smackjeeves_ ** _. Read it, love it, be haunted by it, like I am._


	5. GND - 04 Handsy

**_NB: Based on chapter 1, ‘public indecency’ of the “the Girl Next Door” (aka FriendsAU) comic by stupidoomdoodles, and her tweets. Check out her work on twitter or smackjeeves._ **

_DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is stupidoomdoodle’s idea. I’m just playing in their sandboxes._

* * *

 

**Girl Next Door**

**04 - Handsy**

 

Vegeta was trying to remember why in seven hells he’d agreed to come to, of all places, a nice bar. He didn’t do bars, not unless they were of the seedy underbelly kind, and even then it was only to hunt out whatever sad degenerate Frieza had marked to be pummeled for information or money. But here he was, wearing the nicest pull-over he had, sitting at a tall table in the cleanest, swankiest, schmooziest bar he’d ever been a customer of where there were actual waiters in uniforms and a fully stocked bar, chaperoning his pain-in-the-ass next door neighbor as she made herself familiar with every specialty cocktail on the menu. And the worst part was, he wasn’t having an awful time.

Shit, how did that happen?

He suspected she had a lot to do with it. Okay, fuck it, she had _everything_ to do with it, because he sure as shit wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for her, and she was also the only reason why he was sticking around. Bulma was wearing a pretty, sexy little slip of a dress that tastefully showed off her figure; her whole outfit screamed classy yet flirty. Very flirty. It had been a shock to see her in it at first, to see her thighs and cleavage and shoulder blades. He’d normally only run into her in the hallways or the laundry when she was wearing something far more casual. There _had_ been that time recently at the coffee shop when she’d worn a dress, dragging him out ‘to be sociable’, but it had been a ‘girl-next-door’ kind of dress. _This_ dress was a whole different ballgame. If Vegeta didn’t know any better, he’d say she was dressing up for him.

But he did know better. Women didn’t dress up for him. They avoided him; most people did. Only the Frieza gang groupies were brave enough to pay him any attention, and only after learning about who he was would their eyes light up with the hope that Vegeta would be their meal ticket out of mediocrity, a chance for them to sleep their way up the food chain. It was disgusting. And still, they never dressed up for him, never did anything _just for him_. 

And yet here sat Bulma, looking good enough to be with some A-list celebrity on a red carpet, yet she was sitting here, looking beautiful and talking just with _him_. Vegeta was starting to wonder if she was interested in him in some social experiment kind of way, because what else could it be? He was tempted to ask her, and she’d probably answer with the way she was throwing back drinks, her face growing flushed and her laughter coming easier and louder, her hand on his arm, practically hanging off him when she laughed so hard she nearly fell off her stool.

And despite his better judgment, Vegeta couldn’t help preening a little at her attention. Whatever her reasons were for inviting him out, at least for one night he could pretend like he wasn’t some psychopathic murdering thug and just enjoy being with her. Inch by begrudge inch he relaxed over the course of the night, and he grew gradually more amused by Bulma’s drunken antics, teasing her and enjoying the reactions that he got. She was far too easy, too vulnerable in her current state, and he was having a wicked time getting under her skin. 

“What do you mean, you don’t have a type,” Bulma said, leaning her cheek on her hand and staring at him with big eyes, focused solely on him and looking amazed by his response to her question.

Vegeta smiled, amused at her reaction. He shrugged. “I’ve not given it much thought. You?”

Bulma’s lips curled into a wide, salacious smile. She leaned in as though to reveal a secret. “ _Bad boys_ ,” she admitted with a mischievous glint in her eye. “You know, trong, dark hair, could fuck you up as easily as fuck you…” 

Vegeta scoffed. “You?”

Bulma leaned back, miffed. “Yeah _me_. What, you don’t think I can handle them?”

Vegeta sneered. “You can’t even handle your drink.” 

“I can _too_ ,” Bulma sulked.

Vegeta chuckled. _Too easy_. Before he could think better of it he reached out and swept back her bangs that were falling over her eyes. With those fixed, he touched her face, brushing his thumb over her flushed cheek to prove his point. “The evidence says otherwise, Blue. You’re a mess.”

To his surprise, Bulma grew more red, and she stilled under his hand, her eyes going wide. He felt his own pulse quicken in response, beating a more rapid tattoo, making his blood rush in a way that reminded him of the hunt, of chasing down some asshole he was going turn into blood and meat and a quivering pile of regrets… only this time, the rush had nothing to do with violence, and everything to do with _her_.

And then she leaned into his touch, pushing her face against his palm, and Vegeta forgot how to breathe all together.

“How are we doing for drinks?” a waiter interrupted, and Bulma pulled away. Vegeta curled his fingers on empty air, his teeth clenching tightly. He mentally saved the man’s face to his memory so that he might later find him and beat the crap out of him. 

As Bulma ordered yet another cocktail, Vegeta folded his arms, his fingers tapping impatiently on his arm. Every minute she wasn’t looking at him was a minute he was distracted, a minute he was left to his own thoughts and reminded of where they were, of how out of place he was, of _what the fuck was he even doing here_. He should leave, he should leave now, this wasn’t who he was, where he belonged. He-

“Hey, are you having a good time?” she asked, cutting off his mental diatribe.

The waiter had gone, presumably to fetch her drink. Bulma leaned in and placed her hand on his arm. She looked at him with such hopeful, trusting eyes that Vegeta felt himself start to cave. He sighed and despite himself answered, “Yeah. You?”

“Mm-hm!” she nodded enthusiastically, giving his arm a happy squeeze before letting it go. “This is so much fun!”

“As fun as a human piñata,” Vegeta agreed.

“A what?”

“Never mind.”

“Hmmm… I’m glad you came out with me,” she smiled, looking up at him from under long lashes.

“You didn’t give me much of a choice,” he pointed out. “I thought you had other friends, you know, _actual_ friends you could do this shit with?”

“But I _wanted_ to do it with _you_ ,” she said, and tried to shove his arm for emphasis, but she missed wildly and nearly fell into his lap. Vegeta caught her - she was so tiny in his hands, weighing nothing, light as a dream dissipating with the first rays of dawn - and settled her back onto her stool. He was beginning to think tall tables and chairs at a bar were a really fucking bad idea.

Bulma laughed, embarrassed. “Whoa, I think I’m maybe drunk.”

“No shit.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a while. Bulma smiled coquettishly at him, sinking her face into her palms, supporting her head on her elbows, staring at him wistfully. He gave her a sidelong look, wondering what was going on in that pretty, crafty head of hers, and why she was looking at him like that. It was making him feel all sorts of… _feelings_. Feelings he wasn’t quite equipped to deal with, even if they were pleasant, but he was beginning to think being her social experiment might not be so terrible if it meant spending evenings with her like this, teasing, comfortable.

“Hey~,” she said, her voice soft and deeper than before, her half-lidded eyes sucking him in. “Wanna know exactly how I feel about you?”

Vegeta felt a devilish curiosity overcome him, and he leaned in, smirking, intrigued as to where this conversation was suddenly going. “Well, you’re crazy drunk right now, so I _am_ curious what insane shit you’ll come up with.” He was ready to hear her spout some embarrassing flattery that he could later mercilessly torment her with.

Instead, Bulma reached out and boldly took his hand in both of hers, holding it up, her fingers wrapping around his palm. She gave it a little wriggle as if to say, ‘hey, look, we’re holding hands’. “Uuuh…” he said, a little disappointed. “Ok, not what I expected? Are we in 4th grade?”

She gave him a sly look. Then with a wicked grin, she shoved his hand down, down down under the table, under the short hemline of her dress, and- _oh dear god she’s not wearing panties…!_

“Holy shit…”

“S’that PG-18 enough for you?” she crooned even as his fingers touched something incredibly soft, warm, and _wet_.

“ _Holy shit_!”

“You could be more eloquent when you meet a Pady’s party box for the very first time,” she purred, teasing him.

 _She_ was teasing _him_? How the fuck did that happen? She moved his hand, and he felt his finger slip inside her. Vegeta’s eyes widened further. “Holy _shit_!”

She snickered. “Here, try this: ‘Hey is it humid in here or are you just happy to see me?’”

“ _HOLY SHIT, BULMA!”_

“Oh, it’s not ‘Blue’ now?” she asked wickedly. “I guess all it took was a little finger fiddadling to get to a first name basis, huh?”

“For the lady,” the waiter said, placing a cocktail down on the table between them. Vegeta yanked his hand back, his face bright red, his fingers slick, and he, speechless.

Bulma burst into laughter as the waiter left. Vegeta’s mind was reeling, struggling to catch up to what had just happened, to make sense of it all. He glanced at her, at his hand, around them to see if anyone stared, then back at her again. She was staring at him, flushed and sultry and amused.

 _I just had my hand in her_ , he thought, his neural pathways slowly starting to fire up and make the connections. _I_ just had my hand in _her._

 _Holy shit…_ _She actually likes me_. 

He had no control over the smile that started to split his face. Bulma smirked back at him. “Wanna leave this place?” she suggested.

“Fuck yes,” Vegeta said, jumping up. “I’ll find the fucking waiter.” Bulma just smirked at him and sipped her drink. Vegeta hurried off to make someone give them a bill so they could pay an leave and - and what? Was he actually going to sleep with her?

_Why the fuck wouldn’t I?_

_She’s drunk_.

 _She stuck your fucking hand in her cooch_.

_She’s out of your league._

_She’s been hot for you from the very beginning, you halfwit_.

_You could fuck up whatever you have going with her._

_Dude, she’s wet and ready for you, holy fuck, stop talking to yourself and go-_ “I NEED THE BILL!” he said desperately, grabbing the shirt of the first waiter that passed him. 

He returned to their table a few minutes later, Bulma sitting there with a faint frown on her face, her 8th (according to the bill) cocktail half drunk next to her. “Got it,” he announced, holding up the check.

She didn’t respond. Vegeta put the bill down and touched her shoulder, looking at her quizzically. “Bulma?”

Bulma looked at him. Her face drained of color, paling, and her eyes widened in horror.

She threw up, all over his top, and then slumped forward. 

Vegeta just stood there, in the middle of the bar, with vomit down his front, a tab that he had to pay, and an unconscious drunk in his grip.

Good to see the universe had righted itself and started fucking him over once again.

He should leave. He should just fucking leave her. This is why he didn’t go outside except to murder people. Goddamnit, why had he ever agreed to this, why did she have this power to make him do the exact opposite of what his gut told him to do? 

Vegeta looked at her, slumped in his hands, pathetic and small and vulnerable. She’d be eaten up in a heartbeat the moment he left her, drunk and passed out in a room full of well-dressed sharks. Vegeta felt a ripple of agitation run through him, and with a silent snarl he set her gently against the table. He pulled out his wallet and dumped whatever he had on the table, hoping the tip would be enough to cover the mess, as he didn’t need anyone chasing him down for a cleaning bill. He then hefted Bulma over his shoulder and carried her out, ignoring the stares and whispers of the other patrons. He had to do a lot of fast talking to convince a cab driver to let them in since no one wanted to clean up after a drunk, but he finally did and thank _fuck_ she didn’t throw up again on the way home. He carried her sorry ass up to her apartment, dug her key out from her purse, and let them into her place. He dropped her carelessly onto her bed and then helped himself to her bathroom to clean up the worst of the mess on his top.

He looked at himself in the mirror, surrounded by beauty products on the bathroom sink, using a pink fuzzy towel to wipe down his front, and wondered what he’d done wrong in his life to have every good moment ruined. Perhaps it was all the people he’d brutally killed..?

He dumped the soiled towel in her sink and walked out. Bulma was still passed out on her bed. She was breathing, that was a good sign, but it occurred to him she hadn’t woken since being sick at the bar. Fuck, that wasn’t good… he should probably make sure she wasn’t going to die during the night.

He sat on the edge of the bed and shook her arm. “Hey, Blue.”

She didn’t respond.

Vegeta frowned and shook her again, more firmly. When that didn’t work he lightly tapped her cheek a few times. “Bulma. Hey, dumbass, wake up.” Bulma groaned. Good sign. “Are you okay?”

She groaned again. “Krillin?”

Vegeta scowled, something ugly twisting in his gut. What, or _who_ the fuck was _Krillin_?

Thinning his lips, Vegeta stood up and left the apartment. He locked her door behind him and went back to his own place to take a shower and try to scour away the memory of the whole frustrating night.

The following morning there was a light rapping on his door. He opened it, resting one arm on the door jam as he glared down at the pathetic creature that graced his doorway. Bulma looked incredibly hung-over and shamefaced. She glanced at him with remorseful eyes. “Hey~.”

“Hey.”

She rubbed her arm nervously. “I uh… I don’t remember much about last night. Um… I assume I have you to thank for getting me home?”

Vegeta just stared at her, giving her nothing, keeping his face neutral. “…You’re gonna have a cab fare on your card,” he informed her impassively.

Bulma nodded. “Of course, thanks for letting me know. I probably owe you for drinks, too?”

“Yep,” Vegeta said, and started to close the door.

Bulma reached out, putting a hand on the door to stop it. “Vegeta, hey, I’m really sorry I made you take care of my sorry ass last night, and whatever I did, I can make up for it. How about I start by buying you dinner tonight?”

Vegeta looked to the counter where his phone rested, a message from Raditz about tonight’s hit still on display. Nonchalantly he replied, “Can’t. Got a date.”

Bulma blinked at him, not reacting. “…. _You_ have a date,” she repeated, her voice flat.

Vegeta frowned, feeling uncomfortable under her frank look. “Uh… yes?”

Bulma still didn’t react. “Oookay, yeah, totally. Well, good luck, buddy. Um, maybe another time then?”

 _Fuck this smug bitch. Okay, just shut the door, say something noncommittal and shut the door and don’t make eye contact, don’t look at-_ Vegeta looked at her, meeting her blue, blue eyes that stood out like gems against her pallid, tired face. She was staring at him so frankly, seeing right through him and he sweated more than when Frieza grilled him over a botched operation. “…Yeah, sure,” he finally agreed, looking away from her to break her spell.

God fucking _damn_ her.

Bulma smirked and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Okay, cool. Great! I can’t wait to hear about your _date_. I’m gonna go home now and maybe throw up.”

“Again?” he asked.

Bulma stopped dead, looking appalled. “Oh no… I _didn’t_.”

“You did,” he informed her bluntly, smirking when he saw he’d regained the upper-hand in their verbal tug-of-war. “All down my only nice shirt in fact.”

Bulma winced. “Oh my god, I’ll… I’ll buy you a new shirt.” She put a hand over her face, cringing. “Fuck, I’m the worst drunk ever.”

She looked so pathetic, Vegeta couldn’t help but smile wider. “Pretty much.”

Bulma pulled her hand away and gave him a rueful look. She crossed her arms, hugging herself, and nudged him with her elbow. “But hey, I was worthy of your good shirt, huh?”

“So I thought, but you proved me wrong,” he drawled, and he stepped back and slammed the door on her. He waited until he heard her huff and stomp off before laughing. Teasing her was far too entertaining. He headed to the bathroom but stopped short when he caught his reflection in the mirror. He was smiling and looking… happy.

It was unnatural, and terrifying.

Vegeta took a furious shower, scrubbing away an unclean feeling that soap just wouldn’t abate. He was looking forward to tonight, he’d need a good slaughter to put himself right, and put _her_ out of his head.

* * *

~~ox0xo~~

 

_**AN:** So I couldn’t resist writing more, especially after Dooms so kindly answered some questions about this scene for me, lol. There’s something about a more ‘realistic’ Vegeta and Bulma relationship that I just adore. I also like to imagine that Vegeta is just a little neurotic. Or a lot, maybe. _

_And yeah, I’ll probably end up writing other snippets here or there._

_Thanks for reading! ^_^  ~_ LadyVegeets


	6. GND - 05 Date

**_NB:_ ** _Based on_ **_chapter 1, ‘Blood & Friendship’ _ ** _(and to a lesser extent, ‘tough guy’ and ‘first fight’) of the_ **_“Girl Next Door”_ ** _(aka FriendsAU) comic by_ **_stupidoomdoodles._ ** _Check out her work on_ _twitter_ _or_ _smackjeeves_ _._

_DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is stupidoomdoodle’s idea. I’m just playing in their sandboxes._

* * *

**Girl Next Door**

**05 - Date**  
****

Everything was fucked, as usual. Par for the _fucking_ course.

Someone had mightily, MIGHTILY fucked up with the reconnaissance work, leaving Vegeta to, once a-fucking-gain, suffer the consequences. 

And it had all started off so promisingly. A simple hit, that’s all it was supposed to be, some small time crook thinking he could go behind Frieza’s back and drum up business was about to learn the hard way that it was definitely _not okay_ to do that, but it would only be a brief lesson learned because then he would be dead.

Vegeta liked dead. Dead was final, unwavering, indisputable, and perhaps even a little enviable. And boy was he good at dishing it out. Death was routine for him, and he needed a little normalcy in his life after what had been happening lately at his apartment building.

 _I was worthy of your good shirt, huh_?

Fuck her and her know-it-all smile and come-hither eyes and… Damnit, get it together, Vegeta, _mind on the fucking job_. He grit his teeth and wrapped his hand tighter around the piece in his jacket, the hard steel comforting and anchoring him back to the present. Vegeta should have known then that the whole mission was doomed when he couldn’t even keep his focus on work. He’d always been a single minded, unfaltering killing machine, nothing rattled him, few could best him when it came to completing a job, no bullshit attached, emotionless and resolute in his missions. Only tonight he was anything but those things, his mind awhirl with blue eyes and hair, and a memory of his fingers going to some pretty fantastic places…

Okay, this was fucking ridiculous. Focus, you dumb shit. Go in, shoot the fucker, get out, go home, whack off because that’s _clearly_ the only thing you can think about right no-

 _She wanted to buy you dinner_. _You should take her up on that. It’ll probably lead somewhere more promising than a lonely jerk off in the shower._

Vegeta came to a stop in his march, turned to the nearest brick wall, and proceeded to hit his brow against it until the only thing he could think about was how much his head hurt and, “What the fuck are you lookin’ at?” he snarked to someone eyeballing him warily.

The stranger scuttled off, and Vegeta huffed against the wall, shoulders hunched. This wasn’t okay. Whatever this was, it was definitely not okay, he wasn’t okay. Not that he really ever had been, but this was especially more not okay than usual.

Vegeta checked his watch. It was almost time, he had to fucking move. Luckily the place was nearby, which is why he’d chosen to walk there in the first place.

Once he got inside the building he switched to stealth mode, and his focus slipped back into place like a comfortable sweater. This was life or death now, no time for doubt or distractions, distractions could be deadly, almost as deadly as misinformation.

 _Occupancy: 1. 10pm._ A photo and address had also been given.

Vegeta crept up to the door and crouched down, listening. There was the hum of voices, the TV, and nothing else. He didn’t dare linger in the hallway longer than necessary lest someone come past, and he stood, standing as casually as he could while he slipped a pick into the lock and gently eased the tumblers.

A moment later it gave. Vegeta snuck the gun from his pocket, slipped the safety off, and after exhaling, swung the door open, weapon raised.

Right at 4 startled men sitting on a couch watching TV. 

Vegeta froze. They froze. For half a second, no one moved. 

Okay, fuck, tell them not to move and-

“ICE HIM!” One of the men screamed, and they all lunged from the sofa, reaching for various places and suddenly the apartment was filled with _a lot of fucking guns_.

“Fuck!” Vegeta swore. He aimed for the fuck-face who matched the photo he’d been sent and shot that asshole right through the heart. Mission fucking accomplished. Only now he was diving behind the nearest piece of furniture as one of the hit’s dumb-pieces-of-shit friends started unloaded a clip right at him. When a second weapon started firing and a bullet whizzed through his cover, Vegeta knew he was in serious trouble.

 _I’ll fucking_ kill _whoever set this up_ , he thought to himself, pushing aside the fact that he’d actually have to, you know, get out of this mess before he could kill anyone else. _Kill these assholes now, so you can kill other assholes later._

Vegeta held up his weapon, steeling himself for the right moment to return fire, ignoring his side which was burning in agony after having landed on it badly or something. It was then Vegeta realized he only had the one magazine clip. Against four-now-three heavily armed men.

That made him quite mad. And Vegeta wasn’t someone you wanted to fuck with when he was quite mad.

He roared, furious that this simple mission had degenerated so quickly, and he put everything he had as he slammed into the armchair he was sheltered behind, tossing it across the room at the men shooting him. It startled them, hitting one, while another dodged to the side. Vegeta shot that one and the man went down. Then Vegeta shot the other man trying to crawl out from under the armchair.

Okay, three down. Where was number four? Fuck, he’d lost sight of number fucking four.

Something moved and he turned to see number four run like a little fucking coward out the front door. Vegeta took two steps after him before his knees buckled and gave out. He collapsed to the floor with an alarmed grunt and brought a hand to his left side. 

His hand came away wet. Vegeta looked at it in confusion, blinking a few times. He looked at his side and saw that it was soaked red, a suspicious bullet shaped hole in his hoodie.

“… Shit.”

Aware of it now, the pain from the gunshot wound became incredible, the shock wearing off and giving way to searing agony. Vegeta mustered up every bit of energy and shattered pride he had and STOOD THE FUCK UP.

The pain almost brought him back to his knees. He staggered and crashed into the wall by the front door, grateful for the support. There was a potted plant by the door that he kicked out into the hallway, but there were no shots fired in response. Figuring what the fuck, he peered around to door, but the fourth guy wasn’t waiting in ambush, the hallway empty, any neighbors who’d heard the shoot out were smartly staying locked inside their rooms. The fourth man had probably fled the scene, something Vegeta needed to do before the police came, since someone in the building had probably called 911 by now. Hell, in this neighborhood, it was probably on everyone’s speed dial.

Not wanting to risk a run in on the stairs, Vegeta stumbled towards the fire escape and somehow convinced his body to crawl out the window. He fumbled his way down the shaky escape until he reached the final landing. He raised his leg to kick the last ladder free but his foot slid off the wet metal and he lost his balance, falling.

He landed onto the pavement with a hard smack, the air knocked out of him, the pain crushing, like a tidal wave smacking full force into his body. His gunshot wound sliced hot daggers of pain through his nerves and for a moment he lost vision, and he thought he was going to black out. 

But he wasn’t that lucky. Vegeta lay in the alley and looked up at the sliver of night sky between apartment buildings and wondered where it had all gone wrong. Not just tonight, but his whole fucking life in general. He could feel his life literally slipping out of him, his blood shockingly warm against his cooling body where it pumped out of him, down his side and soaking his clothing. He couldn’t believe this was how it was going to end, that he, Vegeta, was going to die in an alley like some dumb fucking rookie because _someone_ didn’t know the difference between one occupancy and fucking _four_ , and that one of those punks had got in a lucky fucking shot. 

It was kind of poetic, in a warped kind of way, and really, what other ways did he know? His whole life had been one big joke, so why not his death too? Had he really expected he’d die differently than any other goon? Had he really hoped for something more glorious or meaningful? No, not for him, never for him, because life was out to constantly fuck him over and strip away his pride at every chance it got. He’d be lucky if his death even made a passing comment in the local news, assuming one of Frieza’s men didn’t clean up the mess first, and then he really would just disappear from the world as if he’d never existed in it in the first place.

Had he? Existed? Had he really made any kind of impact on the world? He’d killed people, sure, a lot of people. But did that count? Did any of them even count, or were they all as useless and meaningless as himself, just a cycle of shit stains killing off shit stains in some never ending power struggle that only the people at the top ever benefitted from, while all the little peons below scurried around and died for them and _no one fucking cared_.

The sound of sirens in the distance crept into his awareness. Well, so much for a cover up; a passing comment in the news it was to be, then. Good. That would be mildly inconveniencing for Frieza. Ha ha ha, take that you lipstick wearing freak. I hope the news of my death gives you indigestion with your morning cup of fucking coffee. Vegeta laughed weakly while inwardly a part of him wept.

… Would _she_ see it? She popped into his mind from out of fucking nowhere, but he was starting to get used to that. Did she even watch the news? Would she be surprised at his death? Would she cry? He kind of thought she would, she seemed the type. He supposed that might be kind of nice, that someone might actually cry over him if he left this shit stain of a life. That was more than what most people in his line of work got, more than what most of them could hope for. Huh, weird, he actually _wanted_ her cry for him, as if that would somehow validate himself, to be missed by her. Well, turns out dying taught you a lot about yourself. Isn’t that fucking _magical_? …Would she come to his funeral? Fuck, that would be bad, that would put her on some unfriendly radars, might raise some unpleasant questions he wouldn’t be around to explain…

Fuck.

He didn’t have a cell phone, couldn’t afford being found with one if, well, if something like this exact situation happened. No ID, no phones, no names. Which meant he couldn’t call for help, not that it would make a difference since his crew were busy with their own work tonight and would be equally unreachable, and he couldn’t go to the hospital with a bullet wound and a recently fired gun in his pocket, not that any of that mattered because it was all beside the point, the _point_ being he only wished for a phone now so that he might call her and tell her not to come to his funeral. Boy, wouldn’t _that_ be a fun conversation? He could almost see her face reacting to his words; she’d be confused, then upset, then angry, the emotions written clearly on her face because she wasn’t very good at hiding them, and he’d laugh at her indignation and reach out for her cheek and…

Wow, this death thing was taking an awfully long time, wasn’t it? Vegeta touched his side. _Ouch_. Okay, still very much alive, and in pain. He could still hear the sirens in the distance, but they were getting closer. Time was running out, and if he didn’t die soon that meant he’d get picked up by the ‘good guys’, and the ensuing fallout from that would make him wish he’d finished the job the shit stain who shot him couldn’t do.  

_So what are you going to do, dumb ass?_

With a heavy, pained sigh, Vegeta somehow found the strength to roll over and drag his sorry ass up onto his hands and knees, and then to his feet. That he could even get up and walk at all was kind of embarrassing actually, considering moments before he’d given up, figuring himself out for the count, but apparently he had some fight left him in yet. Best not mention this to anyone, he had a reputation to uphold. He started stumbling in a familiar direction. If he was going to die, it was going to be on his terms.

It wasn’t a long walk back to the apartment, at least, not for a man who wasn’t shot in the gut. For a man who was, it was brutal, especially when he had to use the back streets to keep from gaining any unwanted attention, stumbling over garbage bags and shying from human activity. Finally his feet dragged his miserable ass up the stairs of his apartment building, past his own doorway, over to hers. 

He knocked on her door pitifully, wondering what he was going to say, but he was saved the trouble because she didn’t answer.

Of course, she wasn’t home. Why would she be? Why would life give him something now? It was going to be Life’s final Fuck You. Thanks for trying. Better luck next time.

He slid down her door and sat on the floor, resting his head back and staring up at the ceiling, holding his side in a half hearted attempt to stop the bleeding even though he was pretty sure it was too late now to really matter because he was starting to feel more than a little lightheaded. 

He felt his consciousness fade in and out, growing feverish from pain and blood loss. He didn’t know how much time passed - minutes, hours? He thought he imagined it at first but after a few seconds realized he could actually hear her voice coming from the stairway.

Well, he might have to retract his previous statement about Life not giving him anything. But he didn’t, because Vegeta was a sore loser. He saw her feet approach and come to a stop by his side.

“I take it your date didn’t go over well, loverboy?” Bulma asked in a surprisingly calm voice, standing over him, her expression unusually serious as she took in his pathetic situation.

Well wasn’t she fucking cute with her dark sense of humor?

“Did the hole in the stomach give it away?” he asked, struggling to look up at her, barely able to support the weight of his own head. 

She sighed and squatted down by his side, doing something on her phone that was in her hand. “Can I know what happened, or is it, like, classified?”

Sure, why not, he was dying, what did he care if she knew? “Well, long story short, my ‘date’ brought more guns than I was hoping for…” She wasn’t even listening. She was… texting someone? What the fuck? “What… who are you texting?” he asked, meaning to sound irritated but it came out a little more needy than he felt comfortable with. 

“A friend who works in surgery,” she replied, still looking at her phone. “I know you don’t like hospitals and she can be here in less than an hour…” Bulma finished and put her phone away. She still didn’t look at him, digging about in her purse. It was almost like she was avoiding him, but what did he know, he wasn’t exactly in the best frame of mind to be guessing her actions right now. She pulled out a cloth and started folding it, her brow furrowing. “I don’t understand though, your apartment is closer to the stairs. Why did you have to crawl all the way here and ruin _my_ front door?”

That was a good fucking question. “I dunno…” he admitted before he could think better of it. She still wasn’t looking at him, still folding the cloth. She looked angry, or he thought it was angry, whatever it was it wasn’t a good expression, and he felt an unreasonable need to make her LOOK AT HIM ALREADY, so he said the first thing that came to his mind, his fingers curling about his wound. “I think… I kinda… wanted to see you… Before I kicked the bucket…” _Please look at me_ …

Oh, you’re fucking pathetic.

“Oh,” she echoed, her face softening and finally, finally, her gaze slid to his, and she was as beautiful as he remembered.

And fuck he couldn’t meet her gaze now and screwed his eyes shut, letting his head fall back again. “…Aaaand I’m delirious from blood loss right now so just… don’t listen to a word I say ok?” Please, fuck, can I hurry up and die now?

“You got it, tough guy,” she said softly, and the endearing pet-name made him hurt in ways he couldn’t imagine, and that was saying something because he had a bullet in him right now contending for first place.

She moved his hand that was barely doing anything and placed the folded cloth over his wound, pressing against his side and hugging him as she tried to stem the bleeding. She felt so warm, fuck she was so warm and soft and smelt so nice and he instantly leaned against her and relaxed into her because there was nothing else he could do now. If he was going to die, this was… this was actually a really nice way to go. Well, as nice as he could have ever have hoped for.

Minutes ticked by and he didn’t die, although he felt pretty fucking ghastly.

Suddenly she smooshed her cheek against his shoulder and hugged him tighter, and he thought he felt her tremble. Her hair was unbearably soft against his cheek, like feathers. He stole a glance at her, and something warm and insidious curled itself about his heart.

She turned her head to look up at him. “…Wanna get a pizza later in case you don’t die?”

Pizza? _Pizza_? After the drinks he’d had to pay for and the shirt she’d ruined? “Make it 3 and I’m in.”

“Deal.”

She rubbed her cheek against him and he let his eyes fall closed and never in his life had he looked forward to pizza so badly.

He was barely conscious when her friend arrived, though Bulma did her best to keep him awake, asking him dumb questions that he was getting too weak to even bother answering, and it was only when she started crying and shaking him that he realized how badly frightened she was and that he really was an asshole. Her surgeon friend, Launch or Lunch or something equally stupid, helped Bulma carry him into his apartment and extract the bullet from his side. Even half out of it he still swore a lot.

“Ow, FUCKING CUNT!”

“Stop moving or you’re going to die,” the vicious Launch woman told him impatiently.

“I’d do a lot better with some fucking _anesthetic_!”

“What am I, a walking hospital?” Launch groused back.

“Just, sh-shut up and… get it over with!” he snapped petulantly, feeling himself starting to pass out as she dug about in his insides with her _fucking fingers_. Gloved, but still, what was this, the middle ages?! He turned his head to distract himself, but that was a mistake because he could see Bulma sitting by his side, her hands over her face, her shoulders hitching as she cried. The sight was enough to stun him sober.

Oh yeah, she would definitely cry if he died, and suddenly the thought wasn’t as appealing as it had been before. He thought he’d wanted her to cry, but now all he wanted her to do was stop.

“Hey,” he said, his tone remarkably soft despite the circumstances.

She looked up at him, and her broken, watery expression tore him up in ways he didn’t even know were possible for someone who dished out atrocities on a daily basis. He didn’t know how to comfort her, how did you stop someone from crying without killing them? So he resorted to distraction. “Blue, do me a solid?”

“Yes?” she asked, brushing away her tears to give him her attention.

“If I die,” _don’t come to my funeral._ _Don’t cry for me. Forget me, like everyone else will…_ “Uh.. Water my plant?”

“Wh-what?”

“Got it!” Launch exclaimed, and the pain as she dug out the bullet was beyond anything he’d experienced in a long while. He must have passed out because the next thing he knew it was the following day and he woke up in bed, bandaged, with an empty bag of universal blood and an IV in his arm - from where the fuck he had no idea - and a list of instructions about his recovery that he instantly crumpled up and threw out. He dragged himself out of bed, already breaking one of the rules Launch had written for him, and called to report in before Nappa or worse, Frieza, came down on his ass for being MIA. Once that was over with, barely able to stand, Vegeta supported himself on the kitchen counter and watched as his percolator slowly dripped coffee into a mug, his mind going back to the previous night, slumped by her front door, her hand over his gut, her cheek on his shoulder, the tears she had shed, just for him…

Bulma didn’t have to do any of that, but she had. She wasn’t a dumb girl, she knew that whatever he was embroiled in was illegal, dangerous, and still she’d involved herself, for _him_. He was probably alive now because of her. He should have been annoyed at how she constantly embedded herself in his life, angry even, hell, he’d have even settled for mildly constipated. Instead, he felt the irrational need to somehow, in some way, return the goddamn favor.

Vegeta pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil, and started to draw.

 

 

~x~

 


	7. GND - 06 Mouse (Illustrated)

**_NB:_ ** _Based on_ **_chapter 1, ‘Tough Guy/ First Fight/ Midnight Visit’ ( & ch.2 ‘bye bye V card’?) _ ** _of the_ **_“Girl Next Door”_ ** _(aka FriendsAU) comic by_ **_stupidoomdoodles._ **

 

**Girl Next Door**

**06 - Mouse**

 

The seconds ticked by, not counted by a clock because he found those fucking obnoxious, but by his own sleepless thoughts. He frowned, trying to scrunch his eyes further against the night and with it, shut out the annoying events that were replaying over and over in his head like some sick fucking Saturday morning cartoon.

His attempt at ‘returning the favor’ had gone, well, let’s just say, not very well.

Disastrous, if he was being honest, and that was still putting it lightly. He’d been more successful at the recent shoot out than he had been with her, and he’d nearly died then, so that was kind of the summation of the shit hole he’d dug himself into. 

He still didn’t really understand what had happened. He’d wanted to give her something… special, and the only thing he knew with a certainty was Frieza’s protection; it was absolute. She just needed to put his sign in her window and she’d never have to worry about locking her door again because anyone dumb enough to mess with Frieza’s protection wasn’t going to be around to reproduce those lack-luster genes for very long.

“ _Vegeta! You can walk already?”_

_“I’m a tough guy, remember?”_

He cringed at the memory. What had possessed him to say that? When _she_ said it she always made it sound so genuine and _flattering_ , and a small ( _large_ ) part of him enjoyed having his ego stroked. But when _he_ said it, it sounded so… needy, especially as he still had to hold his gut as he did because he _really_ shouldn’t have been up and about yet after getting shot, and that kind of ruined the effect of being ‘tough’, but he just really wanted to see her and yes, maybe impress her a little and try to be that ‘tough guy’…

… for her.

Fuck he was pathetic.

_“Here, I wanted to give you this after the other night…”_

_“Oh my! A love note? And I just needed to save your life to get one?”_

Would… would she have accepted a love note?

_Would you have fucking written one?_

Well, no…

But that’s when it had gone down hill. He’d seen her face change, saw something in her eyes he’d never seen before as she regarded the symbol he’d drawn for her. She’d turned pale, looked stricken…

And slapped him. Hard.

That he let her walk away after hitting him, hitting _him_ , to live another day was testament to how fucking far he’d really fallen down the rabbit hole.

Of course, he couldn’t let it go. He’d given her the only gift he’d given that wasn’t at the end of a muzzle or shoelace, and he was damned if she was going to be such an ungrateful bitch about it. He’d chased her, screamed at her, and she’d screamed at him until he’d wanted to yank his hair out and slap some goddamn sense into her but then…

 _“And how can YOU imagine that I would be happy about getting shit ass ‘protection’ from the assholes who keep sending you to death traps and made you completely fucked up in the head?! The pieces of shit you_ still _support even after seeing me cry like a dumbass over your dying body?!!”_

Oh.

Oooohhhh….

 _She’s not wrong you know_.

And that was the worst part. She wasn’t just _not wrong_. She was very fucking _quite right_ , and he was having a hell of time trying to reconcile that little bombshell. He tried brushing off what she said as simple naivety, because what would she know about it anyway? She was just some silly, white, upper-middle-class girl who’d lived a charmed fucking life and was getting off flirting with him and his lifestyle because she liked _bad boys_. Please. Kindly fuck off with that crap. What could she _possibly_ know about gangs?

Saying as much had been the second big mistake of the day. 

She yelled something about him needing to think over his priorities. She was red in the face and her eyes had shimmered with tears she bravely kept back as she’d stormed into her apartment, slamming the door shut and locking it loudly behind her. Still confused, he’d left her to cool off and returned home to nurse his side and his pride.

The next morning she didn’t answer when he banged on her door for the subway, and when he tried the handle he found it locked. She didn’t meet him in the laundry room that evening. He didn’t see her at the convenience store. She didn’t invite him over or ask for any favors or bump into him in the stairwell. He went the entire day without seeing or hearing from her. It should have been magical, a relief, an amazing fucking gift of fortune…

It was miserable. 

She was right fucking there, right across from him, separated by a stupid fucking wall he could _punch_ _through_ and yet he couldn’t even _talk_ to her. Couldn’t even call her a stupid bitch or scowl at her stupid, blue hair that felt like feathers or feel her fingers against his, slipping against his rough skin like buttermilk. She’d come into his world, shaken him up like a goddamn snow-globe, and then just as suddenly left and now he was scattered about, floating in a million pieces that he didn’t have the slightest goddamn clue what to do with and she wasn’t there to guide him. All that was left to him was to float back down to the ground like the piece of trash that he was and wait to be trampled over like 3 day old trodden snow.

He didn’t see her the next day either. On the third day he was done being ignored. He waited outside her apartment until she came out, not giving a shit if he was late for work, fuming and seething as the hour ticked by, getting later and later. The door finally opened and she was surprised to find him there. She frowned and walked past, ignoring him.

Oh no. Not on his watch.

He slammed his arm before the stairwell, blocking her from leaving. “Goddamnit, Blue-”

“That’s not my name,” she said, her voice flat, not looking at him.

Something cold and sharp twisted in his gut. He clenched his jaw, scowling against it. “… Bulma.”

“Vegeta,” she responded, still not looking at him. “Please let me go.”

Vegeta felt as if her words had punched him in the gut, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Let her go? Let her _go_? What? _No_ …

“I’m going to be late. Excuse me,” she added curtly, impatient.

Oh… _ohhh_ that’s what she meant. He felt the rising tide of panic abate, and he grudgingly lowered his arm, watching her slip past and head down the stairs. He didn’t follow, he wasn’t that fucking pathetic, besides…  he was still trying to swallow back his pride at how badly her request had shaken him.

_Nappa was right. You’re slipping._

Tell me about it.

Day four saw him falling back into old habits. He didn’t even knock on her door, didn’t try to catch her before the subway. He went to work on time, he did his job to perfection. He killed some people he didn’t really have to, but that’s what was expected of him, wasn’t it? It didn’t make him feel any better to end their lives, but it didn’t make the raging apathy and heartache inside him any worse, so there was that, and everyone else seemed pleased with his performance, so ya-fucking-hoo, right? 

On his way back to the subway he passed a Barstrucks and despite himself found his feet taking him inside. He ordered a cinnamon hot chocolate to go. They must have forgotten the sugar because it tasted fucking bitter and he threw it out after one miserable sip. 

It rained on him on the way back to the apartments and he stomped up the stairs, soaking wet, his boots squelching, dragging him past his door up to hers for some reason. The carpet was still stained pink where he’d bled out against it and was now growing wet from the water he dripped all over the place. He pulled up his hand to knock-

And hesitated.

He swallowed, something heavy and dark pulling, dragging him down inside himself, telling him, in very definite terms, that he didn’t deserve her. He never had. He’d had his moment, had something precious, but now it was over. She’d shown him what life could have been like, what he might have had, had he not been raised so fucked up and fucked over. At least he’d had a few months with her, even if he’d been too miserable and wrapped up in his own psychosis to enjoy most of it. He could at least take that with him to the grave, it was more than most assholes like him got.

He lowered his hand, resting his brow against her door, and bit back an overwhelming feeling of despair.

He peeled himself away from her door and returned to the husk of his room. He shucked off his wet clothing, changed, and collapsed into bed. And here he lay, trying to grapple with the reality that he’d wake up tomorrow and she wouldn’t be in his life anymore, just a waif on the edges of his peripherals, lost to him day after day, and he’d rise and kill and come home and sleep, and do the same thing the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, the perfect cog in Frieza’s machine, a hollow, empty tool to be used and used and used until he was of no more use to anyone…

At some point he must have drifted off, because the next thing he woke up to was-

“KYAAAAAAAAH!”

His hand gripped the pistol under his pillow as his eyes shot open. He knew that voice anywhere.

“Bulma??”

It was funny how time slowed down, how in the tiniest fraction of a second the human mind could process a thousand thoughts at once. And Vegeta, with all the years of torture he’d both endured and doled out, with all the pain and misery and loss he’d been forced to suffer, his mind could process an awful lot of violence, imaging a thousand horrendous things that could be happening to her, _right. Fucking. Now_. And for the first time since he was a kid, he felt fear.

He sprang out of bed, his heart in his throat, throwing himself into the hallway and against her door before he could even consider the implications of going in blind. Her door splintered open under his assault with a mighty CRACK!, slamming wide to reveal her standing in her kitchen, alone, terrified, holding a broom.

“WHERE ARE THEY?!?” He demanded, looking around for the threat, his body thrumming with adrenalin, fucking _relieved_ to see that she was unharmed. 

“VE-VEGETA??!” she screamed, her eyes wide in shock.

He eyed the apartment and moved over to her, tugging her in protectively, sheltering her against his body. “Stay close!” he instructed while searching, scanning the place. Nothing. Fuck. Where were they? “What are they? Mafia? Rival gang?” 

 “It’s a MOUSE.”

 _…. Say what?_ “…What?”

“There’s a _mouse_. In my _kitchen_!” She said, pulling back to point towards the fluffy animal while her other hand rested on his chest, and he could feel that she was trembling, which was okay because he kind of was too.

He stared at the furry bastard, his heart still pounding a thousand miles an hour, his head still trying to think of the best ways to barricade them in against an assault and wondering if she could make it down the fire escape without any shoes on and he didn’t know if he’d be able to put up much of a fight with his wound still barely healed and-

Wait, okay, back up. A fucking MOUSE.

Really?

It’s little nose twitched at him.

“…Oh.”

Her hand was still on his chest. She looked up and stiffened. “… YOU BROKE MY _DOOR_!” She said, her panic quickly turning to anger.

He glanced over, surveying the damage he had wrought. “…I did…” Wow. She’d even had the dealt bolt on. No wonder his shoulder fucking _hurt_.

“YOU BROUGHT A _GUN_?!!” 

Oh yeah, that too. Whoops. 

He brought the weapon up, looking at it as if he could somehow explain it away. He couldn’t. “…Yeeeaaahh,” he admitted.

Oh boy did she look pissed. But she was still touching his chest, he could feel her fingers pressed over his heart which was thumping a wild tattoo that was having a hard time calming down after the shock of her ‘attack’.

Suddenly she started beating on his chest, her tiny fists slapping him harmlessly. It might have been funny if she didn’t look so upset and he wasn’t still half expecting some gangster to come jumping out of the shadows and try to take them out.

“YOU… FRIGGIN… INSANE… _ASSHOLE_ …!” she shouted, her voice suddenly thick with tears as she beat on him. “You’re not supposed to react like this. _No one_ reacts like this,” she accused, her hands fisting on his top, having worn herself out. “What the hell is _wrong_ with you?!?”

Oh lady, where do we even begin? How much vacation time do you get, because this is going to take a while… But she didn’t seem to actually want an answer because, because…

She was crying. Oh no… She was full on, legitimately crying against his chest, her shoulders hitching as she sobbed into his singlet. And instead of wanting to run or make it stop with violence, Vegeta just really, really needed her to _stop crying_ because it was tearing him up inside. She was so small, and pretty, and _perfect_ , and watching her crumble before him, _because_ of him, was more brutal than any beating he’d taken.

She was still mad at him. That hurt the worst, and the fear that this could be the last time he’d get to see her, talk to her, was oppressing. If he was going to lose her, then the least he could do was give her a small, honest part of himself before he left and let himself be used up by Frieza.

There was only one thing he could think to say, one thing he’d never told anyone before, because it had never been true before, not until now. “…I’m sorry?”

Her reaction was instantaneous. She reached up, hugging him, and he stiffened in alarm. “…I’m sorry too!” she said wetly against his neck, and she made it sound so easy to admit to.

And just like that, the last four days were forgiven. Like they never happened.

She was sorry too. She was sorry…

 _Ohthankgod_.

He hugged her back, greedily clutching her against him, fighting back the overwhelming relief and gratitude that he _hadn’t lost her_.

 She was warm and soft and fit so perfectly against him and _fuck_ he’d almost forgotten how good it was to hug her, and _she’d_ taught him that, because she was _amazing_. She treated him like a human being even though he wasn’t, and when he came up short which he almost always did, she helped tow the line, taught him what to do and how to do it, and he’d fought and struggled and resisted at first because he was a dick like that, because his life had always been so cut and dry, black and white, but then _she_ came along and suddenly everything started being a whole lot more grey, but he was so unbearably grateful to her now, and to that stupid fucking mouse for letting him have her again.

Oh right, the mouse.

“…Wait, you yelled that loud for a _mouse_?”

“Oh shut up, Vegeta.”

Right. Shutting up. Didn’t want to fuck this up again so soon.

And oh, wow… she was only wearing a tank top and panties. Really cute, pink striped panties.

_Whhhhyyyyy….._

She pulled back, wiping at her cheeks, and she gave him a wet smile. “You came charging in here to protect me from a rival gang?” she asked, starting to sound like her usual self.

Vegeta looked away, very acutely aware that she was half naked. “Yeah…”

“You’re insane.”

No kidding.

She picked up the broom. 

“Uh, what are you doing?” he asked, still in a state of shock.

“I have to get this mouse out of here,” she said, her knuckles white on the broom handle.

He scoffed. “ _You're_ going to catch it. With _that_?” he pointed at the miserable broom.

“Well, what else am I going to do?”

“Get out of the way,” he snapped at her, pushing her back behind him as he crouched down. “Don’t make any sudden movements,” he warned her.

He placed his gun gently on the floor and then let his body loosen and relax and just waited. A few moments later she crouched by his side, clutching her knees to her chest.

“What are we doing?” she whispered.

“Shhh.”

“…”

“…”

“Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

“Bulma, I swear to _god_ …”

“Right. Zipping it.”

He gave her a sidelong glance and she had her mouth pressed against her hands, looking up at him from her knees, her eyes dancing with something warm and affectionate that made his stomach flip flop.

He looked away before he could overanalyze _that_ and saw that the mouse had started to creep away from the wall. He cupped his hands forward, and slowly, slowly, inched forward. He went still, watching, waiting, his muscles tensing like a snake ready to strike…

He lashed out, and Bulma squealed, but luckily he caught the damn thing before her cry could scare it off. 

“See? Superior hunter skills,” he said smugly, the mouse cupped in his palms as he approached her.

She scrambled up and backed away from his hands, her eyes big. “Oh my GOD, Vegeta!”

“What?” What had he done now?

She looked at him uncertainly. “… What are you going to do with it?”

His brow furrowed. “What do you _think_ I’m going to do with it? You wanted it gone, right?” This, this he could do for her, this he was good at. Killing things. Finally.

“No, don’t kill it. Take it outside,” she said.

His brows rose up, perplexed. “Outside?” In the cold, and snow? Rather than a quick snapping of the neck? 

Brutal.

“Yes!” she said, her tone adamant, still looking nervously at his squeaking hands.

He rolled his eyes and headed out, carrying the stupid thing all the way down the stairs, out to the back lot where he let it go to probably freeze to death but at least Bulma could rest easy thinking she’d been merciful. God he hoped she wasn’t doing the same thing to him, but at this point would he even fucking object? 

It was cold, so on the way back he grabbed a hoodie from his place and made sure to secure his apartment before returning to hers.

She hadn’t moved, waiting for him in the kitchen, his gun still on the floor, and she still wasn’t dressed, so he draped his hoodie over a chair because it didn’t seem appropriate to put on more clothes when she was hardly wearing any.

He scooped up his gun, still distracted by her pink striped underwear and he wondered if he should mention it but wouldn’t that be impolite, because it was her apartment after all, so he really had no place telling her how to dress and _why was he still going on about this?_

“Uh, perhaps we should put that out of the way for now,” she suggested, eyeing his pistol warily, holding out her hand for it.

“Oh, right,” he replied. He flicked the safety on and handed the weapon to her.

And froze as soon as she took it.

What

The

Fuck.

_What the FUCK._

He’d just given her his weapon. He’s just _given her. His weapon._

_Fully loaded._

_O_

_h_

_N_

_o_

_o_

_o…_

He couldn’t move, paralyzed by the onset of a sudden goddamn anxiety attack. She placed the gun above her refrigerator and offered him a drink like _nothing was fucking wrong_ but he was too freaked out to reply. It hit him like a fucking freight train, realization a _fucking bitch_.

He’d been prepared to fight for her.

Kill for her.

Maybe even die for her.

He’d _apologized_ to her.

And he’d _given her his weapon_. 

Oh god. Oh god. What… what was this? _What was this_? He’d come in here to reign death upon some enemies, not get struck in the face with a fucking identity crisis. 

“Hey,” she said, stepping before him, slipping her hand into his. He looked down between them, his eyes going wide, seeing them hand in hand and both of them wearing far, far too little.

“It’s late,” she said, her tone soft, looking up at him from under hooded lashes.

His throat bobbed.

Oh god, oh god, oh god…

“Do you want to lie down?”

Ooohhh _god_. Did he want to lie down? Yes, he was beginning to think he needed to but he didn’t think that’s what she actually meant. She started leading him towards her bedroom by his hand and his feet seemed to work but that was the only part of him that did because his mouth was dry, and his chest was hurting from his heart beating a thousand fucking miles an hour, and he could feel himself start to sweat. 

He’d given her his weapon. And she was inviting him back to her bedroom in cute pink striped panties and _he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t ready for this,_ he’d come to shoot people in the face and he was _Not_

_Ready_

_For this._ For _her._ She wasn’t just some prostitute he could fuck and then leave and never, ever have to see again. She was… she was _Bulma_.

Oh god, she was _Bulma_.

He wasn’t ready for this…

His feet dragged and he rubbed his chest, suddenly feeling like he might be sick. She turned around to smile at him, but her face fell, her eyes going wide.

“Oh wow, buddy, are… are you okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

He felt like he was. He kept rubbing his chest, his eyes darting about, wondering if this was what a heart attack felt like. “Think I’ll take that water if it’s still up for offer,” he said weakly.

“Yeah,” she agreed, looking concerned, and she led him over to her couch and he sat down and lowered his head between his knees and tried to _breathe_.

Well, this was suitably humiliating. 

She sat down next to him some moments later, pressing a glass of water into his hands. He took a large sip, and the cool liquid sliding down his throat helped to settle his frayed nerves.

That she was pressed up against him in her underwear did not.

He gripped the glass and tried to just, calm the fuck down. He had this, this was just… just some weird shock, from the adrenalin. Some freak, temporary PTSD shit or something.

“Vegeta, can I ask you a personal question?”

Oh yeah, sure, _great_. Why the fuck not? He was having a melt down, and she was using the opportunity to pry into his life; he was her goddamn fucking captive audience. Clever _bitch_.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

Huh? That questions was… unexpected. He gave her a side-long look, hunching over his drink and trying not to break the glass from squeezing it so tightly. Did she make him uncomfortable? He didn’t know how to answer that.

Yes.

No.

Neither. Both. It was hard to say.

She nudged him gently. “You’re supposed to answer.”

“What kind of question is that?” he snapped, because being a dick was how he deflected best.

“You tell me, you’re the one having a nervous break down in my apartment,” she replied, her tone more concerned than accusatory, which somehow only made it worse.

He scowled down at his water.

Bulma sighed, sadly. “… Should I leave?”

He looked at her, dismayed. There was that word again. Leave. He reached out without thinking and took her wrist. “… Don’t.” _Please, fuck, I can’t handle this right now…_

Her eyes softened and she placed her hand over his, squeezing. “You got it, tough guy.”

Oh, okay… okay…

_Breathe._

She pulled her legs up on the couch, tucking them under her and cuddled up against his side. She held his hand in her lap, looking comfortable and relaxed and very non threatening next to him, and he felt his barriers start to lower.

He’d missed her. This. 

Four days without this.

It had been torture.

She started trailing her fingers over his hard, tanned forearm, tracing his musculature and the collage of old wounds he’d acquired, making his skin prickle where she touched him. “Can I ask you about these?” she asked, brushing her thumb over his scars.

He hesitated. Most of them had been earned in unpleasant ways. But he didn’t want to deny her, he _wanted_ her to know, wanted to let her in. 

“… ‘Kay.”

They spoke for a while of pain, of struggles, of loss. She gently pried, and he answered as best he could. He didn’t tell her details, didn’t tell her anything that would put her in danger or would appall her, but he still let her in to a very small part of his dark world that he’d never let anyone else into before. She listened without reproach, gently stroking his arm and marveling at what he revealed.

It was… nice.

Hypnotic.

Cathartic.

He fell quiet, and she raised her head to peer up at him. “Honestly? Your boss sounds like a dick.”

She didn’t know the half of it. “Pretty much,” he agreed noncommittally. 

“Why don’t you quit?”

“It’s not that easy, Bulma.”

She frowned, but didn’t say anything else. He was a little surprised, expecting her to push the point as usual but she didn’t, much to his relief because he couldn’t see that conversation going anywhere but poorly.

“What if it had been them?” she asked suddenly.

“What if what had been _what_?”

“When you came charging in here, _breaking_ my door and shouting about rival gangs. What if it had been your, you know, your _people_ , attacking me? What would you have done?”

Pfft, please, like he even had to think about that. “I would have sent you out to get more ammonia and vinegar, because I doubt you have enough to clean up that mess.”

She looked at him with widening eyes. “Oh wow, do you need a minute to maybe think about that?”

“Not really.” What was there to think about? He hated pretty much everyone he knew. Some people he tolerated, barely, because they had their uses, like Raditz or Nappa, and maybe if it had been them he would have given them the chance to explain themselves before he pulled the trigger. But he certainly wouldn’t _miss_ them, and wouldn’t lose any sleep if they died. Honestly, half the time he was _looking_ forward to Frieza’s peons dying, had even smirked when some of the men got themselves killed in ridiculous ways because it made him feel just a little bit better about his own situation. So yeah, if he found one of those assholes threatening Bulma, they’d be counting their life in the nanoseconds it took for him to aim and fire. He really didn’t get what the big deal wa-

She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him. “I can’t believe you’d choose me over your gang. That’s really quite romantic, coming from you.”

Oh, well, when you put it like that… _Shit_. He hadn’t meant it like that, hadn’t meant for it to sound like he was _choosing_ … had he?

 _You tell me. You’re the one mentally killing off your own brotherhood for her_.

Huh.…

“Vegeta?” she murmured in his ear. She was warm and soft and smelt really good and something about the way she said his name had him aching for her to say it again.

“Mm?”

“I think I really like you.”

He felt himself tense, his fingers tightening on the couch. “…Oh?”

Oh god, what was she doing? This wasn’t fair, where the hell was this coming from? He felt a trickle of sweat run down the side of his face and drip down his neck, down to his chest.

She leaned back and looked at him expectantly. He looked away, nervous. Fuck, _fuck_ , what was he supposed to say? What did she want from him?

“And I think you like me too, right?”

Fuck! Like her? _Like?_ Vegeta wasn’t even sure he understood the meaning of the word. Mostly there were just things that annoyed him _less_ than others. Did he like her? Fuck, he could spend hours agonizing over how she confused him, over the way she’d integrated into his life, the way she smiled at him, said his name, held his hand, yelled at him, made him crazy for her in worry, made him crazy in a way that was sliding his ethical scale more towards _human_ and further from _sadistic bastard_ , but that was all beside the point because, ultimately, he’d just given her his weapon and she could have used it to blow a hole in his heart but somehow he’d _trusted_ her not to, and that was probably as close to _like_ as he was ever gonna get.

“… It’s possible,” he finally concurred, glancing at her warily.

She smiled and hugged him again. Her breasts pressed against him, her arms wrapped firmly around him. He put a hand hesitantly to the small of her back and then jerked it away guiltily when he encountered skin, forgetting she was _in her panties_.

“It’s okay, you can touch me if you want to,” she encouraged, taking his hand and putting it on her hip.

_Oh god…_

He swallowed, hesitantly firming his grip. He’d never felt skin as soft as hers, and she was amazingly warm despite wearing so little. She hummed in pleasure at this touch, right against his ear, vibrating right through him, straight to his cock.

“Mmm, that’s nice, Vegeta. Can I touch you?”

“Oh… yeah…” sure, why not. Fucking _kill me…_

She pulled back from her hug, settling by his side and put her hand innocently on his thigh. He tensed, a knee jerk reaction, but she either didn’t notice or care because she started rubbing his thigh. She was giving him a coy look, her fingers stroking his leg, and he realized pretty quickly that it was redirecting his blood flow to all the wrong fucking places.

He grabbed her wrist to stop her before things got more awkward.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her eyes dancing. 

 _Oh fuck her, she knew_.

“Nothing.”

“Rriiight.”

Fuck, this was the _unbearable._  

She gave him a smile with a wicked edge. He swallowed nervously and suddenly she was _slipping into his lap_ , straddling him, unexpectedly very, very close. He became painfully aware that his sweat pants were far too thin and for fuck’s sake he had nothing on underneath. She sat in his lap, her hands on his shoulders, and she gently started massaging him.

“You feel tense,” she commented.

 _No shit_. 

She let her hands run up and down his arms, before following the line of his singlet, brushing along the soft fabric on his chest and making his belly tighten. He watched, magnetized and a little fearful as her hands went _lower_ until she reached the hem of his top and paused. “Can I take it off?” she asked.

“Oh… sure…” _Fuuuuuuucckkk…_

He sat, his heart trying to kill him it was beating so hard, and he let her disrobe him. She pulled the singlet up slowly, the fabric dragging over his skin. He raised his arms to help, and he felt her lean in, pressing her soft breasts to his chest to get the shirt off his hands. Then he was free, bare chested, very exposed under her gaze.

“Wow, Vegeta, just… wow.” She was looking at him, her eyes eating him up, biting her lip cutely between her teeth.

“What?” he asked.

“You take _really_ good care of yourself,” she purred.

“Is that… good?” he asked uncertainly. 

“O-ho boy yes,” she assured him. “It’s very, _very_ good. Good job, buddy.”

He winced, never quite sure if she was poking fun at him or not when she called him that. She noticed because she smiled and took his face gently in her hands, leaning in, her breasts pillowing against his chest, and _fuck_ , FUCK he could feel her nipples through her thin tank top pressing against his skin and he just _wanted to die_.

“Can I kiss you?”

Oooohhh _pleasegodfuckingwhy_. 

His heart was _racing_. She was liquid heat pooling in his lap, pressing him back against the couch, trapping him with her soft body and her pretty blue eyes that looked at him and didn’t judge. And then there was her question, _Can I kiss you_ ,  hanging between them, had been growing between them for days, weeks, swelling and building and mounting until it was ripe to burst, the skin splitting and oozing with the promise of something unimaginably sweet, all he had to do was reach out and take it and have it come apart in his mouth…

“Vegeta?” she whispered, so close, her breath ghosting against his lips, her amazingly blue eyes capturing his gaze, luring him in with something he couldn’t admit to but desperately wanted.

 _Fuck it. Fuck it all to hell_.

Her. He wanted _her_. And he wanted to fucking kiss her.

“…Yes,” he agreed.

She smiled. Leaning in, her eyes fluttered closed.

Her mouth barely brushed over his, hardly kissed him at all, her lips feather light, soft and warm. It was maddening, teasing, making him ache in desperation for more.

His fingers touched her thighs, and she gave a tiny, satisfied sigh against his mouth, melting against him like honey. He didn’t think a kiss could be so sweet, but he’d never been kissed before so what the hell would he know? She kept drifting her lips against his, infuriatingly coy, igniting something hot inside him that coiled tighter and tighter in his lower belly until he was throbbing with a need to have more of her, wanting to push his fingers through her fine hair and crush their mouths together because he didn’t want just a little bit, he wanted all of it, all of her… and then she broke apart, leaving him aching and longing.

Her face was flushed, her breathing unsteady as she smiled at him. “H-how was that?” 

 _Fucking incredible._  

His cock agreed.

He wanted to reach up and brush the bangs from her eyes but he felt drugged, heavy, so he simply looked at her, marveling. “You’re blushing,” he noted, the words spoken before he could think to stop them.

She laughed softly, a little embarrassed, touching her cheek. “Yeah, I am. I guess you have that effect on me.”

He swallowed thickly. 

_Holy shit…_

“Is your side okay?” she asked, reaching down to gingerly place her fingers over his bandages. 

He nodded. “Fine,” he assured. _Probably_.

“Let me know if I hurt you,” she softly asked.

He looked at her, suddenly wary. “What are you going to do?”

She grinned, resting her arms on his shoulders. “Trust me,” she crooned, her tone silky. And then she rolled her hips and he jolted upright as she rubbed up against the thick, hot length of his erection trapped between them.

 _Milking_ it.

“Fuck!” he stammered, grabbing her waist, trying to ease her back, humiliated that she’d found him out.

She resisted, shushing him. “It’s okay,” she reassured, wrapping both her hands about his neck to anchor herself. “It’s really fucking flattering.” She lowered her lashes, leaning in and pressed her lips to his ear. “I’m really wet for you too.”

“H-ooh fff-uck…” he groaned, his fingers curling in despair. He was done for.

She pet some of the sweaty hair back from his face, and her mouth was once again hovering over his, their breaths intermingling. She rolled her hips and he choked back a groan, spitting colorful words he’d picked up from a Polish assassin once and he had _no idea_ why they fell from his tongue right now but his mind was short circuiting and _bless her_ she didn’t stop grinding against his dick and it was the greatest moment of his goddamn fucking life. 

“So on a scale of one to having your fingers inside of me, how turned on are you right now?” she asked evilly.

“God _damnit_ ,” he swore pitifully. He was hot, suffocating, over sensitized where she touched him and she was touching him pretty much _everywhere_ and in pretty much _nothing_. She was rubbing on him in her skimpy pink panties and a tank top so dislodged that it was barely necessary at this point, one of the sleeves having slipped down and she was practically spilling out. Her face was flushed, her lips parted, her eyes hooded. The sight of her riding him, all hot, bothered and disheveled, was _devastating_. 

He couldn’t contain himself any longer and grabbed her about the waist, thrusting up against her, letting his cock slip between them along her pretty cunt and one or both of them was very wet because his sweats were now incredibly damp.

“O-oh, yes,” she said enthusiastically, her breath hitching when he grabbed her, and her voice spurned him on. He held her tighter and rose his hips to meet hers as she rolled against him. “Oh god, Vegeta, that feels so nice,” she gasped, and he shuddered to hear her encouragement.

She kissed him again, different from before, open mouthed and hot and needy and _fuck_ it was _amazing_. Her fingers were stroking his hair, his face, undoing him with their gentle caresses as her hips wrecked him, his cock weeping against her soft belly, and he wondered what it would be like to spill himself all over her creamy perfection…

“Do you like that, tough guy? Does it feel good?” she moaned into his mouth, and he was dead, utterly, terribly shot through by her words. He was teetering on the edge, dangerously close to reaching some fantastic perfection, his cock swollen to bursting, his balls tight, and she was whispering the most incredible things just for him and he was _fuck.ing. Lose.ing. It…_

 _“Bulma…”_ he pleaded, his brow furrowing.

“I want you, Vegeta. Fuck, I want you so badly. Oh god, I really wish I could see your cock right now, it feels so good, you feel so good, I want you inside of me…”

He choked, his hands shaking from struggling not to _break her_. The swell of her wet cunt rubbing against him wore him down and he threw his head back, thrusting hopelessly against her as he shattered and came, filling his sweats with his cum.

“Oooohh fuck yessss….”

Bliss. It was earth-shattering bliss…

…

“Vegeta… Did you just…?”

Realization struck with horrifying dread.

“Oh shit, no, fuck, don’t look down!” he stammered, instantly devastated, tugging her closer to prevent her from seeing the evidence.

For a moment she didn’t respond, surprised. Her face was caught in wonder. “Oh god, that’s so fucking _hot_.”

Still panting, humiliated, he looked at her, positive she was crazy.

She gave him a lopsided smile, then hugged him. He let her but wasn’t happy about it. His chest was rising and falling, struggling to calm down from something that was simultaneously both the best and most mortifying moment of his life. 

“I’m so flattered I could make you cum just from that,” she gushed.

“Bulma,” he warned.

“I’m going to cum thinking about this later when I touch myself,” she told him impishly.

“God _damnit_ , Bulma,” he groaned, pressing his brow against her shoulder, sagging helplessly against her. He didn’t know why he bothered struggling or trying so hard when it came to her, he always lost.

And maybe, just maybe, that was okay.

She hugged him, stroking his hair, pressing herself languidly against him. He could feel his lap quickly growing cool and wet. 

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I uh… should change.”

“Oh, of course,” she said, sitting back, and she was still very flushed, her eyes dilated, her nipples visibly pebbled, and it occurred to him she still might be in need. He’d never given his partner’s pleasure much thought before, alright, _none_ really, but he suddenly wanted to return the favor, to see how flustered she could get, to see what she looked like when she broke…

And the idea… excited him. Maybe it was just his pride talking, his extremely competitive nature to be the best and come out on top, because she’d seen him come and now he had to right the playing field, tip the balance back in his favor. He wanted to push her down, push _inside_ of her and watch her beg as he thrust in and out (and she _would_ beg, because she was obviously a talker and no doubt would scream for him with little prodding). He wanted to watch her from between her thighs as he made her come apart with just his tongue. He wanted to have her pretty, cocky mouth wrapped around his cock, just to shut her up for once, and to feel her worshiping him with her tongue…

But before he could offer any reciprocation, she climbed off him and he lost his nerve, and he really was a mess and needed to get cleaned up before the situation got any worse. He cupped himself awkwardly and grabbed his keys.

“You’re leaving?” she asked, sounding alarmed.

That was the plan, wasn’t it? “…Yes?”

“Use my shower,” she suggested.

“And what the hell am I suppose to wear?”

“I can get you something from your place,” she offered.

He hesitated, but only for a moment. What the hell, he’d already given her his gun, giving her his keys was nothing compared to that, so he did.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised as she moved towards the door.

“Wait.” He scowled and looked around. Spotting his hoodie on the kitchen chair he stomped over, picked it up, and thrusted it at her. “Put something on before you head out, christ, someone might see you.” She was still only in her goddamn underwear, her pretty breasts bouncing about all over the place.

She took his top, her fingers running over the material. “Gosh, aren’t you sweet?” she teased, smiling at him coquettishly.

He blushed and tried to hide it with a frown. Why did she have to call him out on everything and make him feel a hundred times more awkward about it? And why the fuck did he kind of like it?

 _Like_?

Fuck.

“Tch,” he huffed, and he reached out and tugged the tiny shoe string strap of her top up, slipping it back over her shoulder. There. Better. 

For that she placed her hand on his chest and leaned up, kissing him on the corner of his mouth. It sent him into critical melt down all over again and he froze, prey caught in a predator’s gaze; a mouse caught in a trap.

She glanced at him coyly. “D’you like when I do that?” she whispered against his lips, watching his reaction, trying to read him, see what made him tick, and at this point he was willing to play along. 

Mostly. But he was no mouse.

He answered her by brushing his lips to hers. Her eyes rose in surprise, but only for a moment before she accepted his advance, pressing against him, kissing him back. He wrapped his hands around her tiny, feminine waist and to _hell_ with the mess in his pants because holding her against him was _so_ much better.

That was, until she rubbed against him and he felt the cooling, sticky evidence of his previous pleasure _squish_ and he grimaced in disgust. 

“I need that shower,” he mumbled, reluctantly detaching.

She let him go with a knowing smirk, and slipped his hoodie on. The sight of her in it, in _his_ fucking shirt, the hem of it licking the tops of her thighs, was making his stomach curl possessively. He suddenly had the irrational need to watch her cross the hall in it, move about in his apartment in it, fetch his clothes for him in it, and bend over the kitchen table in it, his hands pushing it up over her ass-

“I’ll get you some clothes,” she said, jingling his keys.

_Yes, good, fucking go now please, I can’t stop with you here like this..!_

“Promise I won’t snoop,” she winked.

“Knock yourself out,” he offered. She wouldn’t find anything even if she did. His apartment was a barren wasteland, only the bare necessities. There were clothes, food, weapons - and he’d already given her one gun so what was 12 more? He kept nothing incriminating, not only for security reasons but because he simply didn’t _have_ anything. Well, there was his cell, but she’d have to hack that and she hardly seemed the type. Besides, what else did he really have left to hide from her?

Not…a whole fucking lot, actually. And that should have been terrifying. But it kind of wasn’t.

In fact, it was kind of nice.

She left while he was considering the implications of that and he went and showered in her bathroom. Her place was unsettling, the set up the same as his but everything here was far more colorful and cluttered. Lived in. He eyed all her things warily, hair products and body lotions and myriads of other girly toiletries that he didn’t even pretend to know what they were, hogging up all the available shelf space. Did she really use all this shit? After he’d showered he realized that he had no fresh bandages, and when he opened her bathroom cupboards to check, was greeted with more bottles and hairdryers and other useless items and he gave up.

He exited the bathroom, finding a clean set of his clothes folded for him. He put on his bottoms before heading out into the main living space and found her on the couch, still in his hoodie waiting for him, his keys on the table. 

“Don’t suppose you have any gauze?” he asked, holding a hand over his wound.

“Actually, yes.”

She wasn’t kidding. She had a pretty elaborate first aid kit in a cabinet in the kitchen. Over prepared much? Then again, she had a lot of _everything_ so he didn’t think much of it. 

Bulma had him sit on the counter and she cleaned and bandaged his side while he watched. He tried not to think of how intimate the situation was. Her pretty brow was furrowed in a soft frown, and he wondered what she was thinking. 

“This is going to leave some scar,” she said as she finished up.

He shrugged. His body was covered in scars, what was one more? 

She crouched down to put the first aid kit away in the bottom cabinet and as she turned she startled, her eyes widening in alarm. “Oh my god… it’s back.”

“What?” he asked, slipping off the counter and crouching down by her.

“The mouse. It’s _back_!” she exclaimed, one hand pointing, the other reaching out and grabbing his arm in fear. He looked down at her tiny hand and smirked, puffing up with pride and a little amusement that she saw him as her _protector_.

He glanced to where she pointed. “…. You mean that pile of _dust_?”

She leaned forward hesitantly, still clutching his arm, squinting. “…Oh, wow, yes. You’re right. I must be tired.”

“You need to clean more, maybe then you wouldn’t attract rodents.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“No, I’m the exterminator.”

“Ah. Right.”

She reached out and took his hand, pulling it into her lap and holding it.

And neither of them thought to get up, so they sat huddled on the kitchen floor, and just… started speaking. Well, she spoke, he mostly listened, but sometimes she asked him questions, and he answered as best he could. She talked a lot about her friends and travels when she was younger, and he was surprised because she sounded a lot more adventurous then he’d given her credit for, but then again she’d been fearless around him so it made a weird sort of sense. She spoke of her family and interests, tried to ask him about both of his but he couldn’t say much to those so he tried to change the subject. His mind went blank. He panicked and asked her what her best christmas was and she told him about it in extravagant detail. 

“… So yeah, it was _almost_ as good as my 16 th birthday.”

“…”

“… Oh my _god.”_

 _“_ Bulma, don’t _-”_

 _“YOU HAVEN’T HAD A_ BIRTHDAY _?!”_

He sighed.

And she spent the better part of the next hour planning his birthday party and _god_ he hoped she forgot about it before she could ever put it into action.

They spoke of everything and nothing and it was perfectly, genuinely comfortable. She pressed _right up against him_ even though they had the whole damn kitchen floor, but who the fuck was he kidding he didn’t mind at all, and she played with his hand and arm, touching him as casually as you please. As the night whittled by he found himself opening up, venting his frustrations and making snarky comments about his ‘work’ and ‘colleagues’ that he normally only kept to himself and sure enough that conversation led to Frieza. 

She asked a lot of questions about that, wanting to know how he really _felt_ about Frieza and _why_ he’d ever joined the gang in the first place - like it had been a fucking _choice_ \- and he couldn’t answer her because there were things he couldn’t even admit to himself yet, let alone her, but he managed to successfully talk around the issue, or so he thought… Suddenly years of pent-up malice came brimming to the surface, years of abuse and ill deeds and slights that he’d been forced to endure, forced to bury and bottled up, forced to swallow down and repress until now… Finally he had the chance to vent, release some of that pressure but he was struggling not to let it froth up and _explode_ all over the place like a badly shaken bottle of beer. And just when he thought he was going to lose control _she_ quelled his fury, squeezing his hand and giving him an understanding look. She deftly changed the subject, and just like that, Frieza was forgotten.

Like Frieza didn’t fucking matter. Because with her, he didn’t. 

It was just her, and him.

She had become his goddamn oasis in the harsh dessert of his world. She was so removed from the intricacies of gang life and the underworld it was refreshing, her normalcy a balm to his chaos. He knew with her he could escape all the bullshit and just be himself, just be Vegeta, whoever _that_ was. He hadn’t even known that he could be someone that wasn’t just an extension of Frieza’s gang, and he still wasn’t entirely sure that he could, but with her, at least he thought it was possible.

“So, I guess talking really does it for you, huh?” she teased, getting back onto _that_ subject.

He flushed, scowling. “Why are you so vulgar?”

“You don’t seem to have a problem with it. I didn’t hear you complaining earlier, or when you had your fingers inside me at the bar.”

He gritted his teeth, feeling his face grow warm. “I thought you said you didn’t remember that!”

She gave him a salacious grin. “It came back to me. So… any regrets?”

“……. No.”

She beamed, plopping her head on his shoulder affectionately. “Me either.”

And thankfully she let that conversation end there or she was going to have to get him another pair of pants.

Suddenly an alarm clock started ringing, and Bulma looked out the window. He did too, seeing the pale light of morning. Holy shit they’d been talking all night.

They got up stiffly, and Bulma left, turning off her alarm. She returned a moment later dressed in a robe, handing him back his hoodie. He slipped it on, and it was warm and smelt just like her.

“Oh, I have some left overs, you can take them if you like,” she suggested, and started packing him a lunch before he could object. She gave him a bag and he took it mutely.

He grabbed up his things and without speaking they both headed to the front door, reality waiting for them on the other side.

“So, I guess you’re… uh…”

“Going to ‘work’?” he suggested.

“Pfft… Yeah, if you want to call it that.” 

She was playing with the strap about her robe, looking at him, waiting. The comfort they’d developed suddenly seemed to have vanished and he felt awkward and tense all over again.

_Say something for fuck’s sake._

“Thanks for…” _Getting me off with a bit of heavy petting and lewd encouragement? Not being mad at me anymore? Being the most incredible human being in my life who I don’t fucking deserve?_ “…Not kicking me out after last night’s… fiasco?”

“Yeah, well, honestly, I didn’t feel safe alone in a freakin’ doorless apartment.”

Damn, she was still on about that, huh. He was the one with a shoulder that felt like it might be dislocated. “Yeeahh.. I.. will pay for the repai-”

She suddenly darted forward, leaning against him and kissing his cheek, and despite everything that had happened it still made him fucking _blush_.

“Just.. Um..,” she said, pressing up _real close_ and coy, touching his chest familiarly. “If you want to drop by again tonight… We’ll do something other than just “talk” this time… If you want…”

CRITICAL MELTDOWN. MALFUNCTION DETECTED. ERROR, ERROR.

He raised a hand to his cheek and she gently pushed him through the doorway with a tiny finger on his chest, right between his pecs, backing him out.

“So… Enjoy your day at ‘work’ then…” 

The door softly clicked shut on him, or as shut as it was going to get with the latch splintered and the hinges shot.

And he stood there, dumbfounded, his mind trying to wrap itself around her offer.

 _Holy shit, Vegeta… Holy shit. I think you just scored_.

I did?

 _You so did. Fuck, you get to_ have that _tonight._

Holy fuck… YUSS.

_Good luck getting through the day with that on your mind._

…. Fuck.

 

* * *

~~ox0xo~~

 

 **AN:** If you haven’t seen it yet, Dooms drew the most AMAZING picture for a very particular scene in this, haha XD 

 

Speaking of fanart, this adorable art piece by **[itscoffeeforbreak](https://itscoffeeforbreak.tumblr.com/post/156829554045/its-vegebul-fan-art-of-ladyvegeets-ch-6-mouse) :**

[ ](http://s1079.photobucket.com/user/ladyvegeets/media/OtherFanart/itscoffeeforbreak_GND_mouse_zpsdcjiiipt.jpg.html)

_DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is stupidoomdoodle’s idea. I’m just playing in their sandboxes, very graciously by Dooms too I might add. Stupidoomdoodles and LadyVegeets can be found on_ **_twitter_ ** _,_ **_tubmlr_ ** _and_ Girl Next Door comic can also be found on **_smackjeeves_ ** _. Read it, love it, be haunted by it, like I am._

 


	8. GND - 07 Coming Apart

**_NB:_ ** _Based on_ **_chapter 2, ‘Surprise’, ‘Moving Day’, ‘Strikeback’,_ ** _&_ **_‘Goodbye Old Friend’_ ** _of the_ **_“Girl Next Door”_ ** _(aka FriendsAU) comic by_ **_stupidoomdoodles._ **

 

**Girl Next Door**

**07 - Coming apart**

 

Vegeta had rarely experienced the emotion others referred to as ‘happy’. He’d had periods of being _less_ angry or agitated, he’d even felt maybe _good_ at times, or amused, or proud, or even accomplished. But if he’d ever felt ‘happy’, he struggled to recall the memory because it paled in comparison to the warm, elated feeling that was buzzing through him right now, enveloping him and softening all the pain and rage and apathy that usually fueled his day, now nothing but a distant memory, swallowed by the fuzzy, fluffy thing he was feeling.

_If you want to drop by again tonight, we’ll do something other than just “talk” this time…_

Oh fuck yes.

He could still feel her kiss on his cheek and it awoke the memory of the kiss she’d given him on his mouth, the way she’d tasted, the way she’d felt, so warm and eager and playful in his lap. He remembered falling apart beneath her, letting her be on top, letting himself be so rawly exposed to her, and he didn’t loathe it. In fact, (premature endings aside,) it had been _so fucking good_. Even letting her hold his hand, letting himself just… be himself and sit with her, comfortably sharing intimate and mundane tales from their pasts had been shockingly good, and though he hadn’t gotten any sleep he’d never felt so goddamn _happy_ in his life.

He. Felt. Happy. And feeling happy felt good. And feeling good made him happier. He’d never considered that before. It was some kind of goddamn self-sustaining loop. And he might have marveled at the novelty if he wasn’t too busy just enjoying it and remembering the way her cheeks had been flushed as she ground against him, or how she’d looked wearing his clothes and he was _still_ surprised he’d given her his top because he wasn’t the type to share, _at all_ , but it had been better than risk someone seeing _his girl_ run about half dressed. And seeing her in his clothes had filled him with some kind of possessive ownership that he wasn’t sure was healthy but what the fuck did he care, _she_ hadn’t, and that’s what mattered, wasn’t it. And he was still wearing that same hoodie, he hadn’t thought to go home and change, he’d just floated right out of their apartment building, heading straight for work on autopilot, which meant he’d left his phone in his room but who the fuck cared about that?

He had to stop by some of Frieza’s ‘affiliates’ to pick up protection money owed. The first was a little bakery. He’d never paid attention to what they had before but today, for the first time, he noticed how fucking _quaint_ their little cakes and breads were, and he got the impression it was the kind of place Bulma might like to visit.

The old man who owned the shop recognized Vegeta immediately and sent one of his boys to the back to get the money together. No words needed to be exchanged, they’d been through this routine a dozen times before, and this old man was smart, didn’t need reminding who was in charge or what was at stake if he didn’t comply. 

Only this time instead of glaring at him balefully, Vegeta was eyeing the wares. He didn’t know what half the things were, but something blue and fluffy caught his eye in the display case and it reminded him of _her_. He approached the glass and peered at the tiny round cookies with piqued interest.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing. It didn’t occur to him that it was the first words he’d spoken since introducing himself months ago.

The old man hesitated. “… Is macaron.”

Vegeta contemplated that. It sounded fancy. Bulma liked fancy, didn’t she? She liked Barstrucks, that was kind of fancy, right?

The old man watched him, shifting uncomfortably. “… You… want try?” he offered after a moment.

Vegeta looked up at him. “D’you think a girl would like it?”

The old man’s eyebrows rose. A single drop of sweat trickled down the side of his face.

Vegeta waited patiently for an answer.

“Uh… Yes, is popular. She… likes the sweet?”

Vegeta nodded absently. The muffins they sometimes shared from the corner shop were sweet, as were the coffees she drank. And she’d enjoyed trying all the different beverages with him from Barstrucks. Perhaps she’d enjoy trying these too. Would she be surprised if he brought her something? Impressed? He could almost see it in his mind now, her widening smile, the look of delight on her face when he came over and had something to offer her for once.

A gift.

He’d never bought anyone a gift before.

Yes, Bulma definitely needed a gift.

“I’ll take one of each,” Vegeta decided.

The old man poorly hid his surprise as he opened a box and delicately placed one of each of the macarons into it.

“Tell me everything about them,” Vegeta added. If he was going to present her with a delicacy, then he sure as hell was going to make sure he knew what the fuck they were. He didn’t need a repeat of the fucking Christmas incident.

The old man glanced at him, then told him in broken english that the cookies were made from egg whites and almonds, had various kinds of filling, and originated from Europe. Or that’s what Vegeta took away from it. The boy came back with his money which Vegeta checked before shoving it into his bag and waited for the old man to finish packing the sweets into the little white cardboard box with gold ribbon.

He lifted his his hoodie to better pull out his wallet, exposing his weapon in the process. “How much?” he asked.

“Oooh no no no, is on house,” the old man insisted, looking horrified at the notion of Vegeta paying, his eyes darting to the gun at the small of Vegeta’s back.

Vegeta paused, considering. Then he put his wallet away with a smile. What a nice old guy. Yeah, Bulma would definitely like this place. If she like the macarons, he’d have to bring her back here. He took the box the old man offered him, raising it in a gesture of appreciation, then put it in his bag - next to Bulma’s left overs - and left.

Whistling.

Man, today was a fucking _amazing_ day. 

He went from store to store, collecting money from those due. As his bag got heavier and his stomach growled, Vegeta found a bench to sit on and took out the left overs, eating and watching the people walk by. He saw a couple walking hand in hand, rosy cheeked and googily-eyed and for once he didn’t sneer down at them with a faulty sense of superiority, wishing they’d get struck by a semi. He watched them, remembering how it felt when Bulma held his hand. He found himself wishing the day would speed up so he could be with her again, but at the same time he was kind of enjoying this feeling, this sensation of… floating. Of anticipating. Enjoyment. Peace.

He sucked his fingers clean and continued on with his job. The next place came up short on their payment. The young man prostrated on the ground at Vegeta’s feet, sobbing in despair.

“P-please, don’t kill me… I swear, I s-swear I’ll have it by next week, h-oh please god…”

Vegeta flipped through the bills, counting. “S’bout half here,” he said amiably. He’d guessed as much before counting, and was only off by one bill. Fuck he was getting good at eyeballing cash piles.

“OhpleaseohpleaseI’msorryIswearI’llhaveitnextweek…”

Vegeta shoved the cash in his bag, then crouched in front of the owner. “Hey, c’mon man. You sure you don’t have the rest?”

The man shook his head pathetically, crying brokenly.

Vegeta sighed. “Okay, fine… Here, stand up.” He helped the poor guy stand up, the man barely able to function he was so terrified. Vegeta looked him over, assessing. “… What the fuck is it you do again?”

The man sniffed. “W-watch repairs.”

“Huh… probably need your hands for that, right?”

The man nodded pathetically.

Vegeta nodded. “Okay. Here’s what I’m gonna do. Today, I’m going to break one of your legs. It’s going to hurt, but you can still work, and you’re going to make sure you have the rest of Frieza’s money by next week, or I’m going to really regret being so lenient with you.”

 The young man looked at Vegeta with wide, wet eyes. “Y-you’re not… going to… k-kill me?”

Vegeta smiled. “Not today.”

It was the easiest broken leg he’d ever given anybody.

Vegeta made the last few picks up, then headed in to meet up with Nappa. He drifted into the apartment, his head still full of blue hair and smiles and whispered promises, the ghost of her lips still on his cheek…

“VEGETA! FOR FUCK’S SAKE, WHERE WERE YOU ALL NIGHT?!”

Vegeta felt the balloon of his happiness start to loose some of its air. It was unusual for Nappa to get so worked up. Hearing the man’s panicked voice and seeing his ugly mug was enough to pop Vegeta out of his buzz. 

“Something happened with Raditz!”

Aw fuck, _now_ what had that idiot gotten up to? Vegeta dropped his bag and approached Nappa. The older man was frantic, not even waiting for an explanation from Vegeta before pressing on with his news.

“You know he went out of his way to look for his brother ever since we’ve moved to his city, right?”

Vegeta huffed. Great, not _this_ again. “The brat his parents dropped somewhere to keep him away from Frieza, yeah. I know his sob-story already - wouldn’t fucking shut up about it.”

“Well,” Nappa continued, pulling something up on his phone. “That crazy moron found him alright, but… just listen to the message I got from him before he went MIA.” Nappa held out his phone. Vegeta folded his arms, listening as a muffled voicemail started to play, unfamiliar voices speaking.

_“… Goku’s badly beaten! We need to get him to a hospital!”_

Vegeta frowned. ‘Goku’? Why did that ring a bell…

_“At least that brother of his is done for.”_

_“Y-you sure Piccolo? He’s not gonna, like… Rise up from the dead or anything, right?”_

_“Speaking of raising from the dead, Bulma…”_

Bulma…

… BULMA…?!

_“… Think we could use the dragon balls, here?”_

_“Pretty sure, yeah… Too bad we’re out of senzus…”_ That was… her voice… He knew… that voice…

_“Wait - Shit, is that thing recording us?!”_

_“BREAK IT KRILLIN! QUICK, STEP ON I—” crrk *beeeeep*_

.

.

.

The message ended and Nappa was talking, something about Raditz being dead and the dragon balls, but Vegeta couldn’t process it, wasn’t paying attention. His brain had short circuited, still stuck on the message, struggling to catch up… They’d said _Bulma_ , unmistakably; Vegeta didn’t know a lot of things but he did know that her name wasn’t common. It had to be her, it couldn’t be anyone else, he’d heard _her voice_ … And those other names, Goku, Krillin… they were familiar too, weren’t they? Friends of hers? She’d mentioned them before he thought… Fuck, what was _she_ doing wrapped up in this. _How_ had she gotten wrapped up in this?

Oh… oh _no_.

Oh fuck…

 _He’d_ brought this on her. He didn’t know how, but he must have fucked up, let someone follow him, maybe left evidence somewhere, been spotted by a rival, or fuck, someone in their crew had said something they shouldn’t have… Whatever had given him away, it had now made _her_ a target and if they’d followed him and knew about her then they knew where she lived and… and… _Oh no_ …

“…I… Broke… her door…”

“…What???” Nappa asked, whatever he’d been going on about coming to a halt.

Vegeta didn’t care, already leaving.

“W-Where the hell are you going now?!” Nappa shouted after him.

“DON’T TELL ANYONE ABOUT THIS SHIT! _ESPECIALLY_ NOT FRIEZA!” Vegeta shouted after him as he fled. 

“ _NOT_ TELL FRIEZA?! YOU WANT TO _DIE_?!?” Nappa cried out as Vegeta left the apartment, Nappa’s infuriated words following him. “SERIOUSLY, AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO HASN’T GONE _CRAZY_ IN THIS CREW?!?!”

Vegeta ran, his mind in pieces, his body filled with a horrible, consuming dread that built and swelled and grew worse with each running step.

She was in danger. He’d _put her_ in _danger_. 

And she was defenseless. He’d left her, not only unprotected but in a goddamn doorless apartment and FUCK he didn’t even have his goddamn phone on him if she tried to call!

 _Oh god, please be okay, please be okay_ …

Maybe she’d left already. Had she gone to work? Had she left on time for once? No, of course she hadn’t, not without him there to badger her into getting ready at a decent pace, and after their night together there was a good chance she might have decided to stay home entirely…

Fuck… 

No wait, of course she’d left, the fucking message on Nappa’s phone told him that, because Raditz wouldn’t have gone to her apartment without checking in with him first. But then… where the fuck would it have happened? Goddamnit, Raditz, where the _fuck_ did you go that you got _her_ mixed up in your fucking family reunion?! And now that he was dead, and she’d seen that, there was a good chance she’d gone home to recover, she was probably shaken up, she’d sounded shaken up. Who else did Raditz send that message to, had Nappa forwarded it on already? Fuck, if people thought she was involved with the dragon balls…

Shit…. Shitshitshit…

Taking the subway was fucking agony because it meant he couldn’t move, just had to stand still and _think_ and _worry_ the WHOLE FUCKING WAY BACK, strangling the pole in his grip as he willed the goddamn train to move faster. He pushed out the doors before they’d even opened all the way and sprinted from the station to their building as fast as he could go, not caring who he knocked over. He pulled out his weapon when he entered the stairway, taking the flight two steps at a time as he bolted up to their floor.

“Shit shit shit shit shit…”

He saw her busted door.

Hanging open.

Dread filled him, made him feel sick, his mouth going dry and his heart bursting wildly in his chest. He forced his breathing to calm, forced himself to slow down as he approached the doorway.

“…Bulma?” he called softly, peering in, glancing around. An eerie silence greeted him. The apartment was still. It been trashed, items strewn around, draws left half open or tipped upside down on the floor.

Cold crept over him, an old, familiar feeling clawing up from the depths of himself where it had been shoved down little by little over the weeks, but now Vegeta felt it slipping back into place, steeling himself against a numbing dread…

He’d seen a thousand dead bodies before.

He didn’t know how he’d handle seeing hers.

Was she lying dead, just around a corner, waiting for him to stumble upon her? How would they have done it? Choked her? Shot her? Had they tortured her for information first? Had they touched her? Had she called out for him, hoping he’d come crashing into her place like he had last night when all he’d had to fight for her was a goddamn useless mouse?

He surveyed the apartment, creeping through her place, preparing himself for an attack, for a glimpse of a still, grey foot or limp hand… 

 _Please… please don’t be here_ …

But the apartment appeared abandoned. Had she been taken?

Had she fled?

And if she had, where to? It suddenly occurred to him that he had _know idea_ where he’d even look for her. Outside of the comfort of their world, of their strange, half-blossomed relationship, she was a complete fucking unknown. 

Something softly clinked beneath his toe.

He glanced down. A broken picture frame was on the floor. He recognized her image immediately, young as she was. But the boy with wild black hair was foreign to him.

A classmate?

Friend?

Brother?

He… didn’t know. The boy was important enough that she kept a picture of him in her place but Vegeta had never thought to ask if she had anyone important in her life, and it suddenly struck him that it was only the tip of the fucking unknown iceberg, because there was a whole shit-ton of things about her that he didn’t know. But it had never even seemed relevant in the context of their relationship because she was _just Bulma_ , the girl next door, annoying neighbor who’d wheedled her way into his personal space and into his mind and dreams and made him _happy_ and turned his whole fucking life upside down and yet he _didn’t even know who the fuck she was_.

What did she do?

Where did she do it? With who?

Why was she so okay with what he did?

Why, for someone who spoke so fucking much, who asked a lot of fucking questions, did she never ask him for specifics, or give specifics about herself?

… What the fuck was her _last name_?

He didn’t know.

He didn’t know…

Where was she?

Who was she? 

Who _was_ she?

Okay, so, he needed to work on his communication skills, no one was fucking surprised there. He needed to ask her some goddamn questions when he found her, but… was he even ready for her answers, because he was getting the uncomfortable feeling that he was going to have to make a choice soon, and it felt like one of those monumental choices you had to make that fucked you over either way you went…

He heard a noise outside her window. He moved over to investigate, looking out. Down on the street he saw Bulma being shepherded inside a police car. Relief that she was alive was fleeting because she was just as quickly being taken away from him. He leaned out to shout after her.

“BULMA—Mmf!”

Hands yanked him back inside, something wet and sickly sweet covering his mouth and nose, and a heartbeat later he felt his eyes roll up and his knees give out.

_Sono v a  b   i  .  .    .    ~_

He didn’t remember if he fell.

 

* * *

X~x~X

 

Time didn’t exist here. They could have held him for hours or for days and he wouldn’t have been the wiser and was getting to the point where he didn’t have the strength to care. He’d been on both sides of the chair before, he knew how this all worked. He wasn’t given food or water, wasn’t given any way to tell the passing of time, kept in a dark, empty room with no natural light. They visited him at odd intervals, perhaps only minutes apart, perhaps hours, and stayed with him just as randomly. Most importantly, they didn’t allow him to sleep.

Time didn’t exist. Only pain did, and his will to endure it.

Zarbon, Dodoria, Cui… they all took their turns, all had their specialities and preferred methods of breaking a man. They were good. But Vegeta was better, had endured it all and worse before, and more than that, it was a matter of pride. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was protecting the answer to a goddamn crossword puzzle, he wouldn’t be giving them shit. If they thought torturing him was going to make him give up anything, especially _her_ , they were dumber than he thought.

And he thought they were pretty dumb.

They made him bleed and scream and through it all asked him about Bulma, and he would have laughed if he could because half the questions they asked he didn’t even _have_ the answers too. The irony kept him sane as they beat him until he spat up blood, singed his skin with lit cigarettes until his vision burned with tears, ran hot bolts of current through his body until his muscles locked up and his jaw clamped shut and his skin burst with sweat, and he prayed his heart would just give out already because wouldn’t that be the ultimate fuck you, to die in the torture chair and then they’d have nothing but a broken, bleeding mess to clean up and a bitch of a time explaining to Frieza that they’d killed him by mistake.

But no such luck was had. Every time he passed out or started to drift off they’d slap his face, drop ice water over his head, put foul smelling salts under his nose and he’d be with them again, ready for round whatever-they-were-up-to-now.

Was he going to die like this? Possible, and that wasn’t really ideal, but if they were being this persistent it meant they didn’t have her yet, which meant she was still safe. If he was going to die or be shipped off to the middle of Eastern Europe or wherever the hell Frieza might want to use him next, then at least he had that thought to sustain him.

That and his memories of her. It was a trick he’d been taught to use during interrogations like these, to fantasize, imagine a scenario so vividly that he could lose himself in it, forget about what they were inflicting on his body and protect his mind from breaking. He slipped inside his memories of her, both the good and bad because it didn’t matter with her, even the awful times they’d shared had been a damn sight better than what his life was usually like. 

_I think I really like you…And I think you like me too, right?_

Yes, yes he did. Unabashedly he did. He wished he could have admitted that to her then. He liked the way her voice rubbed against him like velvet, liked the way her eyes danced and her lips curled up when she saw him, even if he thought she was laughing at him at times. He liked how soft her hair was, how tender her hands were whenever she touched him, and above it all, he liked how he felt when he was with her, no expectations, all that was expected of him was to give her his whole attention and he willing did so, every goddamn time, helpless to do anything but because she was impossible to ignore.

He tried to remember the way she smelt, but he quickly abandoned that when his nostrils filled with the smell of his own burning flesh and cheap cigarettes. He tried to remember her laugh, but Dodoria’s goddamn booming voice was too obnoxious, creeping into his mind until her ugly voice blended with Bulma’s, distorting his memory and he soon abandoned that too.

So he tried to at least remember _what_ Bulma said, if not _how_ she said it. Like the stories of her past… only the more he analyzed those, the more he realized there were giant gaping holes, like the fact that he knew she used to sneak car and technology magazines to school the same way boys sneaked Playboys, but he didn’t actually know _where_ she went to school, or who she had grown up with, or how long ago any of her stories had even transpired.

Fuck, he didn’t even know how old she was, or when her birthday was. Or if she had family. Or who exactly her friends were, or how the fuck they were _all involved in this_. But then again he’d never bothered to ask those questions and _she’d_ never bothered to tell him. _Conveniently_ , he might add, considering he’d kept very little from her; he’d given her pretty much everything important he had to give, and he realized now just how uneven that exchange had been. What had she given him? A kiss? A cactus?

 _Who is she_ , Zarbon insisted, smacking his fist into Vegeta’s face with a solid, resounding blow. _Where did she go? Who did she associate with? How much did she know about Frieza and their operation? How was she involved with the dragon balls?_

All great goddamn questions. Vegeta wished he knew.

The questions ate at his mind as they broke his body until they left him there to rot, alone, exhausted…

The overhead light flickered back on. Vegeta barely responded, drifting on the fringes of awareness. His breathing was ragged, struggling to drag air into a body riddled with pain. He heard sharp footfalls from well tailored shoes slap smartly on the floor as someone approached.

“Well, well, Vegeta… You were the last one I expected to fall for a honey pot.”

If Vegeta were in a position to emote, he would have shown surprise. He hadn’t expected Frieza to pay him a visit. The boss’ appearance was unsettling. Vegeta felt his heart beat erratically in his chest, his fingers twitch where they lay behind the chair, roped together and dead from lack of circulation. 

So this is how it was going to end, huh? Fucking figured.

Frieza walked slowly around him, the soft clip of his shoes letting Vegeta know where he was, not that he needed the cue; he could feel his skin prickle under the man’s presence, his hairs raising from a sixth sense. A few delicate fingers prod him between the shoulder blades, tipping him forward, and Vegeta slumped over, as weak as a fucking newborn lamb. He felt blood dribble pathetically out of his mouth.

“I don’t entirely blame you, though,” Frieza continued, his words calm, sinuous, as captivating as a star in an inky black sky, as magnetic and devastating as a black hole. “… Our ‘competitors’ must have known you were looking for their dragon balls for me.”

What the hell was he going on about? Wait, _their_ dragon balls? Did he mean… 

No…

“I figure that’s why they got the big guns to grab your interest - I suppose she never gave you her full name, right?”

No… no no no…

Frieza came full circle, standing in front of him. He placed something on Vegeta’s leg, right in his lap so that he wouldn’t even have to raise his goddamn eyes to look at it. Couldn’t _not_ see it.

_Nonononono…_

He knew what it would be.

Who it would be.

Her.

A young Bulma smiled up at him from the photo, flashing him a peace sign.

_No… please, no…_

His heart clenched torturously. 

Why hadn’t they just let him die..?

“Bulma Briefs, heiress to the Capsule corporation - genius, beauty, and one of their main leaders,” Frieza informed him.

Bulma.

His Bulma. 

_Heiress, genius, leader?_

His Bulma?

No, _not_ his Bulma… He didn’t know this Bulma.

He didn’t know Bulma at all…

…You stupid _fuck_.

She was _Z-gang_. No, she was a goddamn fucking _leader_ of the Z-gang. All these months, all these _fucking_ months she’d been playing innocent, holier-than-thou, pretending to be just some girl-next-door who had NO IDEA about gangs, huh? Pretending to be all helpless and asking him all those _cute_ fucking questions about _why_ he’d joined Frieza or _what_ he’d _do_ if he found his own crew coming after her… Oh, oh that clever, fucking…

“She tricked us both, Vegeta…”

Oh, boy, ‘tricking’ him didn’t even _begin_ to describe it…

_She played you._

He’d _confided_ in her. Sacrificed his work for her. Been willing to fight and die for her. He’d kissed her, creamed his goddamn pants right in front of her. He’d given her _HIS GUN!!!_

Reality came crashing down, the illusion of the last few months shattering and revealing the ugly, cold truth beneath. This is why she’d shown interest in him, why she’d followed him about. Talked to him. Hadn’t batted an eye at his ‘work’ or freaked out at the sight of blood on him, and knew how to bandage a wound. Why she’d found subtle ways to ask him about his work yet never told him about hers or who she _really_ was…

She was a goddamn fucking _spy_.

And he’d fallen for it. The oldest trick in the goddamn book and he, _HE_ had fallen for it. Even _Raditz_ wasn’t that fucking dumb, and that moron had just gotten himself killed.

_I think I really like you…And I think you like me too, right?_

You useless, worthless, pathetic _fool_ , Vegeta.

“…And I believe you know how to strike back.”

He felt the ties about his wrists loosen, his flesh stinging as the rope was ripped away. Feeling slowly returned to his fingers as his blood recirculated. 

“Yeah…” he replied, flexing his hands. He tasted the blood on his lips and it was familiar, awaking an old, cold purpose inside him, flooding him, burn through him like black fire. He looked up at Frieza, and his boss smiled at him. 

Frieza’s lips widened at what he saw. He handed over his gun. Vegeta accepted it. 

“…’Course I know.”

He was going to murder that bitch.

And he was going to fucking _enjoy_ it.

 

* * *

X~X~X

 

Nappa checked the time on his phone, the hum of the TV in the background filling the apartment with white noise.

Finally there was the knock on his door.

He opened it and Vegeta was there, beat to hell and oddly subdued.

Nappa stepped aside, letting Vegeta come in without a word. The young man went and sat on the couch. Nappa sighed, feeling his shoulders sag with the weight of his years and responsibilities bearing down on him.

He shut the door and fetched the first aid kit.

He patched up the worst of Vegeta’s injuries. Neither said anything. They’d been through this before, although Nappa noted it looked like the boys at HQ hadn’t pulled any punches. Still, Vegeta had the use of all his limbs, all his fingers and eyes intact, so they clearly wanted him in working condition yet.

Once tended to, he let Vegeta pass out on the couch, and he left to fetch supplies and to call in, letting Cui know that Vegeta had checked in with him.

He returned a few hours later and Vegeta woke with the sound of the front door opening. Nappa handed over some food, water and pain killers, all packaged and unopened because even after all these years he knew the untrusting little bastard wouldn’t accept them otherwise.

Vegeta consumed it all without thanks, a sullen, calculating look on his face. Nappa knew that look.

Blood was going to be spilt.

After several long minutes Vegeta got up, taking up his bag he’d abandoned the day before when he ran out after hearing Raditz’s message. Nappa had already taken the money, but Vegeta didn’t seem interested in that. He started going through Nappa’s apartment, helping himself to various supplies and shoving them in the bag.

“Who’s going to die?” Nappa asked him, finally breaking the silence. 

“Z-gang,” Vegeta replied flatly.

Nappa had expected that. Cui had filled him in. “How?” he asked, watching Vegeta warily as he methodically packed his bag.

“Nappa, if you don’t know how to ice a motherfucker by now, then there’s really no helping you,” the little shit replied.

“Oh har har, very funny, your Royal Smartass. Do you have a _fucking plan_?”

“Yeah,” Vegeta drawled. “Go in. Shoot everything that moves. Take the dragon balls. Peace the fuck out.”

Nappa sighed, getting up, irritated at Vegeta’s attitude. He was smarter than this. “You want us to storm their HQ, just like that?! You’re in no shape after the beating you got!”

Nothing, nada, fucking zip. Vegeta was stonewalling him, worse than usual. Okay, clearly there was still some hostility over his little ‘refresher course’ in Why You Shouldn’t Betray Frieza Over Some Broad, especially when said broad was working for the goddamn enemy, but so what, the little punk would have to nut up and get the fuck over it. And going on a suicide mission wasn’t going to impress anyone.

“Look, just because it’s a direct order from Frieza, that doesn’t mean you have to play it all bravado-like to get his pardon—“

“I’m not doing it for Frieza,” Vegeta cut him off coolly, his back still to Nappa as he finished packing his bag.

Nappa barely refrained from slapping a hand over his face. “Oh goddamnit, it’s about that one bitch aga-”

“I’m getting the dragon balls for myself.”

He… _couldn’t_ have heard that right. “…What?”

Vegeta didn’t reply.

Oh, that was _it_. The boy had finally lost it, finally snapped under the pressure and fucked up ‘education’ Frieza had put him through.

“Have you lost your _MIND_?!” he yelled at Vegeta. “You want to steal right from under Frieza’s _and_ the Z gang’s noses?! That’s _SUICIDE_!” Nappa declared, exasperated. Goddamnit, Vegeta, you stupid, spoiled-

“That’s my problem.”

Son of a _BITCH._ No, NO, he had _not_ scraped and bowed and tolerated years of bullshit, years of building up his career from scratch, _twice_ , tolerating this little asshole kid and being reduced to his goddamn _nanny_ out of some misguided sense of loyalty and a promise he’d made to a man he’d admired just for it to topple over like some fucking game of Jenga. No, he hadn’t kept his head down and taken all the shit jobs and tolerated all the crap and drama from Vegeta, AND Frieza AND Raditz, struggling to somehow make it all work between them, struggling to do his job and keep the peace and keep them all fucking alive and working cohesively together, no, he hadn’t done _all that_ just for it to end now with guns fucking blazing because _this_ little dipstick had a chip on his shoulder.

“I can’t let you do this!” He said decisively. “I’ve followed you this far for your father’s sake, but you’re gonna get us _killed_ here! I’ll call Frieza and—”

BANG

The sound was mortifying loud. 

He looked down and saw the blood blossoming over his chest. That little… No… Nappa clutched the wound and looked back up at Vegeta who stood over him, gun held out, his face hard and unflinching. Nappa remembered that face, that was the face of the young man he’d met after he’d returned from years of ‘training’ abroad. Vegeta had left a sheltered boy of a stolen empire and returned a psychopath, Frieza’s right hand, all the humanity and warmth beaten out of him, leaving nothing but a hollow, violent shell that Nappa had no means of connecting with. But even though he was a cold, emotionless asshole, Vegeta was all they had, what they had grown used to, what Frieza had _paid for_ , and if Vegeta broke then it would only be a matter of time before their team did too. Which is why he and Raditz had started to panic as they watched Vegeta’s mask crumble over the last few months and with it their little team frayed at the ends, their ‘family’ as Raditz insisted on calling it coming apart, because they were built solely around Vegeta. That’s why Raditz had been so desperate to find his brother lately, he’d sensed it, seen Vegeta pulling away, saw the clock ticking down. It was only a matter of time before the shit hit the fan.

They’d been wishing for the old Vegeta back, and if Nappa had a sense of humor he might have found it ironic that his wish had been granted, staring down at him from the end of a smoking barrel.

“you… fucker…” he wheezed, his knees weakening, and for a heartbeat he held Vegeta’s merciless gaze.

_I saved you._

_I raised you._

_I sacrificed everything for you._

_You stole my life._

_I hate you, you fucking little turd. I wish it had been you instead of your father…_

His legs collapsed out from under him.

* * *

 

Vegeta watched Nappa drop to the floor and he put Galick in the waistband at the back of his pants, picked up his bag, and stepped over his old ‘ _friend’_ on the way out.

He figured he’d have enough time to stop home before Nappa’s body was found.

Vegeta had hoped killing Nappa would be more cathartic.

He felt nothing. Empty.

Apathetic.

Raditz was dead. Nappa was dead. His old life was dead. The only way to go now was forward, and he was going to carve a path for himself out of blood and hellfire.

But first, he had to tidy up some loose ends.

Vegeta helped himself to Nappa’s car and drove back to his apartment, getting a change of clothes and more weapons. His phone was dead, out of charge, and he didn’t care, couldn’t take it with him anyway because they could track him that way. 

He shoved some ammo in his bag and saw the squashed box of macrons inside. He pulled them out, staring at them, staring at the crushed container, scuffed and misshapen with its gaudy gold ribbon. 

_Pathetic._

He brought his hand up and slowly, very deliberately, with great care, _crushed_ the box between his palms, pressed down and down and _down_ until he heard every single one of those little fucking cookies _break._

He threw the crumpled box into the trash. He grabbed his bag, about to leave. Something caught his eye. 

The rose quartz cactus.

As if watching an old movie, the memory from his past played before his eyes and he saw himself researching the stupid thing, looking up how to take care of it, where it came from, what it needed to survive. He had admired that it could survive off so little. Hardy, stubborn little thing. _Protect from frost_ , it had cautioned.

Vegeta looked out the window. It was already snowing outside, a light dusting but the dark sky overhead promised heavier falls. Vegeta opened the window, tipped the cactus upside down so that it fell out of the pot, soil and roots spilling out, and he left the pathetic plant on the cold sill to die a slow, miserable death.

He left the apartment, not bothering to lock the door behind him. He wouldn’t be back.

As he drove down the street, the traffic infuriating slow due to the weather, he saw something flickering in his peripherals.

TIMES UP, the sign blinked.

Vegeta pulled over sharply. He got out of the driver’s seat, car door left open, and stepped into the store.

“Good evening, we’re about to close u- O-oh, it’s you,” the young man stammered, seeing who it was.

Vegeta looked him over coolly. The young man’s leg was in a cast.

“Y-you’re a little early,” he said, smiling anxiously. “I-I still have a f-few more days, right?”

Vegeta stared at him with unfeeling eyes.

They looked at each other, the tension mounting.

Vegeta raised his gun and blew the young man’s brains clean out the back of his head, blood splattering all over the far wall.

Then he turned and left, getting back into Nappa’s car, and pulled back onto the road.

 

* * *

~~ox0xo~~

 

 **AN:** Baby, it’s cold outside… 

 _DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is stupidoomdoodle’s idea. I’m just playing in their sandboxes, very graciously by Dooms too I might add. Stupidoomdoodles and LadyVegeets can be found on_ **_twitter_ ** _,_ **_tubmlr_** _. Girl Next Door comic can also be found on_ **_smackjeeves_ ** _. Read it, love it, be haunted by it, like I am._

 


	9. GND - 08 Downfall

**_NB:_ ** _Based on_ **_chapter 2, ‘Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing’, ‘Actual Zombies’, and ‘Just for One Night’_ ** _of the_ **_“Girl Next Door”_ ** _(aka FriendsAU) comic by_ **_stupidoomdoodles._ **

 

**Girl Next Door**

**08 - Downfall**

 

Vegeta sat in the car for who knew how long, _he_ sure as fuck wasn’t keeping track, but the shadows were growing longer and the snow piled up on the ground as he stared at the door through his right eye, his left swollen closed. A gentle glow emanated from the house’s side window, beckoning like a siren and just as traitorous, calling him to a damning end. He tried to imagine what was going on behind that door, but his mind was blank, as silent and white-washed as the world around him.

His weapon, Galick, sat in his lap. The hint of gun powder still floated in the confined air of the car. 

_Is that how you’re going to do it? Shoot her?_

He frowned, letting the thought go, not particularly comfortable with imagining the specifics. He was just going to play the whole thing by ear.

_You? Going in without a plan?_

Sure, why the fuck not? What good was a goddamn plan when he had no idea what he was going to encounter, what to expect? Better to be flexible, adapt as the situation called for it… 

 _Galick is too good for her. She FUCKED YOU OVER. This is_ personal _._

He swallowed and looked back at the cop car that sat in the drive way, dusted in snow. It had been the key to finding them. Frieza’s intel had narrowed down their general location to this neighborhood. And lucky for him, Vegeta had been trained to remember license plate numbers. It was laughably easy to find them, a police car with plates that matched the one he’d seen Bulma getting into, right before Zarbon had abducted him.

…Right before he’d learned the truth about _her_.

_“Bulma Briefs, heiress to the Capsule corporation - genius, beauty, and one of their main leaders…”_

He felt his brow pull down and his jaw clenching, his fingers tightening around his weapon. 

_“She tricked us both, Vegeta…”_

The night was painfully still. The snow fell as if in slow motion, conjuring images of her, just as pale and light and surreal. He remembered the feel of her in his lap, her creamy limbs about him, her plump breasts before him, her nipples so hard through her sheer top he could see them almost as clearly as if she wore nothing. He regretted not taking those nipples in his mouth, not having a chance to enjoy her more; there would be nothing left to enjoy after this night.

He rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing away the memories of her, the _lies_ , and the ache they were inflicting on him, his chest feeling tight and a searing pain slicing through his brain. 

 _Stop dragging your feet and_ do _this already_.

He slipped Galick into his hoodie pocket and pulled his bag’s strap over his shoulder before stepping out of the car. He had kept the engine off so it didn’t feel much colder outside. His feet crunched against the newly laid snow, leaving footprints in his wake as he made his way up to the front of the house. Snow settled on him, and for a moment he stood and faced the door, feeling the cold seep through his clothes and bite at his extremities. The world was eerily quiet, and the very air held its breath, waiting. 

This was it.

_Are you really going to do this?_

_“I think I really like you…And I think you like me too, right?”_

Yes.

She’d broken open his shell and scooped him out and made him feel _human._  

Just to fuck with him.

He could never forgive her for that.

He raised his hand and knocked on the door.

A moment later it opened, and a scrawny old man wearing _sunglasses_ of all fucking things stood in the cracked opening. “Yes?”

Vegeta glared at him.

The sunglasses stared back.

“…Is Bulma here?” he asked, his voice gruff from lack of use.

The old man didn’t even flinch. “Don’t know any Bulma.”

Vegeta felt his eye twitch. He sucked in a deep breath to keep the searing migraine he felt encroaching at bay, and leaned in, meeting the old man eye to sunglassed-eye. “Get me. Bulma,” he said, his voice deadly calm.

To his credit, the old man still didn’t flinch, but he did clear his voice. “…Let me double check.”

 _You do that_ , Vegeta thought, but said nothing.

The door shut and locked, and Vegeta was once again alone in the cold.

He didn’t have to wait long. The door burst wide open, bathing him in the light and heat from inside, and in the middle of that radiant glow was her.

“Vegeta!” Bulma exclaimed with breathless excitement. She did a convincing job of looking pleased to see him, but she had been practicing for a while now, hadn’t she?

She was beautiful, wearing a simple wide-necked sweater, her face flushed from the sudden cold air, her blue hair and eyes sparkling in their brilliance against the grey and white world he stood in. He felt his throat close up as he took her in, seeing her for perhaps the first time. Not an annoying neighbor. Not a friend. Not his Bulma.

Just a double-crossing bitch.

He wanted to deny everything about her and crush her like the damn box of macarons. 

She wrapped him up in a tight, warm embrace. He should have shoved her away but his limbs felt weighed down, his brain short-circuiting to have her pressed so close to him. The smell of her overtook his senses, her downy hair on his cheek painfully familiar and awaking all sorts of feelings he struggled to push back down to a place where they could never resurface.

“I’m so glad to see you! How did you find me?!” she bubbled with enthusiasm, not the least put off by his broken appearance. But she never was, was she, never questioned his bruises or busted knuckles or bloodied clothes. She squeezed him, and he felt the wound born from her betrayal split and ooze _everywhere_. “You must have been worried about the apartment in such a mess… I bet you were asked questions too…” she said, all the while _nuzzling_ his fucking shoulder. 

 _Pressing up against him_.

He couldn’t breathe.

This fucking _cunt_ …

“I wanted to tell you about what I’ve been doing…”

She was assailing all his senses, his smell, sight, touch, hearing, all of it bombarded with _her,_ and she’d probably find a way to assault his taste too if it weren’t for the fact that his tongue was stuck in his mouth. He couldn’t speak, his throat closed up and he felt like he was _choking_. 

_Get her off. Get her off of you, you fucking idiot!_

He started to pull out his gun.

“…But I realized you were working for Frieza, and…”

He stiffened, his good eye going wide. 

 _What_ did she say? He hadn’t expected her to bring up the topic of Frieza so easily, or imply she had until _recently_ been ignorant of his connection to the bastard.

Bulma pulled back and he hastily pushed his weapon back into his pocket, staring at her, dumbfounded, as the cool air replaced the warmth of where her slender body had just been. Her hands remained on his shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed prettily, her big blue eyes staring at him with painful sincerity.

And something warmer, something he didn’t want to acknowledge. It made the black snake of loathing thrash in his belly unhappily.

“But I know I can trust you! And I _know_ you can help us!” she told him, and damn her, _damn her_ that she looked so fucking _genuine_ and _affectionate_ , and it made something shatter bitterly inside of him.

Trust him… _TRUST_ him?!

There were so many things wrong with her statement he didn’t even know where to begin, but she didn’t give him the chance. She turned and grabbed his left arm like it was hers to take, like she was _always_ grabbing him, always _touching_ him and causing his neurons to fire erratically and mess up his train of thought and make his heart palpitate uncomfortably. 

“Come on! I want you to meet the others! They’ll _love_ you!” 

And because his brain had abandoned him ever since she opened the door, he meekly followed, having nothing better to do, telling himself it was all part of the plan, an opportunity to gather intel, assess the situation, even if he’d been adamant that no plan _was_ the plan. 

“Guyys~! This is the friend I told you about! Be nice, okay?!” she called cheerily inside.

The light and warmth of the house was eclipsing him, wrapping itself around his body like tendrils, beckoning him in, tempting him away from the dark and cold, away from the loneliness of isolation and the white night that had blanketed his soul. Her hand was warm and light where it pressed on his back, gently ushering him in as he stepped over the threshold and into the warm glow that swallowed him up. 

* * *

~~oxo~~

 

Vegeta had no idea what the fuck he was doing here. Bulma had made with the introductions and then sat him down at a table. She offered him a hot drink before heading to the kitchen, _leaving him_ there all alone with three perfect strangers. 

They stared at him. He stared back through one distrustful eye, shoulders hunched. He got the feeling they could see through the bullshit that Bulma was blind to.

Yeah, this wasn’t awkward or anything.

He glanced around, finding himself in a small house, little better than an apartment. The room left much to be desired in terms of decor, if posters of half-naked women and a goddamn photo of a _turtle_ of all things could be considered that.

The short bald guy she had introduced as Krillin, and who Vegeta recognized as the police officer that had ushered Bulma into his car, hurriedly made some excuse about helping Bulma before he fled to the kitchen. No doubt he had gone to chastise the woman about her choice of ‘friends’. Vegeta would have done the same. 

So, then there were two.

The old man, Roshi, he could get. Vegeta had met his kind before in the underworld. Just an unassuming old man, but Vegeta didn’t doubt the geezer was useful in his own way. You didn’t keep people like that around if they couldn’t pull their weight. The old man just sat there and stared at him, like a goddamn smiling statue. 

“So… You’re Bulma’s ‘friend’, huh?” Roshi asked, trying to be conversational.

Vegeta frowned at him unpleasantly.

“…Right then.” Roshi cleared his throat and glanced at the last member of the gang, and Vegeta did too.

A boy.

A _fucking boy_.

What the fuck was a _child_ doing here?

He glared at the kid and the boy shrank in on himself under Vegeta’s gaze, trying to pretend he was reading a book that looked far too advanced for him. 

Vegeta squinted harder. There was something oddly familiar about the boy… He was sure he’d seen that face before. He didn’t deal with children a lot, so where had he seen a boy’s face recently…?

Realization shattered across his mind’s eye with the sound of broken glass, crunching under his shoe.

The photo frame, back in Bulma’s apartment. There had been a picture of her and some boy, and _this_ kid had a great likeness to _that_ one. But it had been an old photo.

Vegeta reeled back, his eye widening as a horrible sinking weight dropped in the pit of his belly. 

Why _else_ would a kid be here if he wasn’t _hers_ …

Vegeta felt sick. How far did her lies go? How much about her did he still not know? He looked over his shoulder and saw Bulma and Krillin watching him, her expression soft, almost amused, Krillin’s less than pleased. Vegeta’s rage was bubbling up inside him all over again, starting to get the best of him. He had hoped this little impromptu visit might garner him some answers, but all it was doing was raising more questions and stoking the fire of betrayal in his stomach. 

“What the _fuck_ is this!” he demanded loudly, gesturing at the boy, needing to vent his frustration before it got out of hand.

Bulma arched a brow and came back into the room. “What? _Gohan?_ He’s Goku’s boy,” she said, pointing to a picture on the wall. Vegeta glanced at it, seeing a man with a large, dopey grin and wild hair, the grown up version of the boy in Bulma’s photograph. There was also a pretty, dark haired woman, and sure enough, Gohan, although the boy looked younger in this photo, little more than a toddler. 

“But why is he _here_?” Vegeta demanded sourly. “His folks dead?”

Gohan’s eyes widened.

Bulma shot Vegeta a nasty look. “What? No! They’re working. Try to be a little more sensitive, would you?”

Vegeta turned away from her, petulant, as Bulma affectionately tussled the kid’s hair. But not, he noted, in a motherly way. More like a bratty older sister. Gohan tried to jerk his head out from under her, flushing with embarrassment. “Bulma,” he whined.

‘ _Bulma_ ’. Not ‘Mama’.

Vegeta felt something ease inside of him, and he hated himself for it.

“I’ll be right back. You’ll want to see this,” she said, turning to him, her tone already indicating she’d forgiven him for his harsh comments. She patted his shoulder and left the room, heading down a hallway and disappearing into a side room. 

Krillin, Roshi and Gohan were all trying not to look at him while very obviously doing just that, all of them expressing varying degrees of fear.

Vegeta let out an aggravated sigh and sank down further in his chair, waiting. 

He should have just fucking shot them all.

His mind drifted back to their conversation at the front door.

_“I wanted to tell you about what I’ve been doing…”_

Yeah right. Like she didn’t have a million and one opportunities?! How many times had they just sat and talked and talked and she had _never told him anything_?

_“…But I realized you were working for Frieza, and…”_

Right. If she was telling the truth, she must have learned his association from Frieza’s gang symbol. He had tried to bestow it upon her, like some great fucking honor that he was taking her under their protection, and she had freaked out. Bulma was prone to over react but even he had been stunned at how upset she was at the time. It made sense now, didn’t it?

She had probably been scared, and hurt, and confused. He had unwittingly revealed himself to be her enemy, waving it in her goddamn face, and she had panicked.

_Oh yeah, please, like she hadn’t known from the beginning._

Had she?

 _That’s what Frieza said_.

Because Frieza is real fucking trustworthy…

Vegeta frowned, folding his arms over his chest, riddle with displeasure and uncertainties. 

 _“But I know I can trust you! And I_ know _you can help us!”_

“Tch,” he said aloud, skeptically, and the three others in the room startled. 

Vegeta frowned sourly. This was going to be a long night.

Bulma thankfully came back a moment later, a dark, nondescript suitcase in hand. She placed it on the table. “Here, this is what we’re fighting for.” She opened the case and displayed seven pretty, tiny marble-like orbs, shimmering orange and red. “The Dragon Balls.”

They looked like candy.

Vegeta couldn’t believe it. “What the hell? Some drugs? That’s all they are?!” Un-fucking-believable! There was no fucking way. He’d been through hell and back, had been emotionally turned inside out and beaten black and blue, just for the latest fucking _party favor_?

“Not just ‘some drugs’, Vegeta,” Bulma countered. She plucked one of the balls and held it up for his inspection. He glared at the tiny thing balefully. “Each of these pellets do nothing on their own,” she explained. “But together, they represent the greatest discovery in all of human history.” She paused for dramatic effect, and Vegeta lifted his gaze from the pellet up to her face and was taken aback by the wicked glint in her eyes. Her gaze was narrowed, her mouth lilting up with smug satisfaction, looking almost sinister, and it made something coil tightly in his belly, made his blood boil. “The secret to immortality!”

And everything fizzled back down, snuffed out like a flame.

…What?

He waited for her to laugh, to explain the joke, for the others to react, but instead they were all waiting for _him_ to react, and he realized _she was serious_.

He sighed, his face twisting in aggravation, and he pushed his hand through the hair at his temple. “What?”

“I know it sounds crazy,” she hastened to reassure him, her expression still serious and impassioned. “But I took my time studying them, and it’s real! We used them before already; if administered to a fresh corpse, their chemical components bring back the _dead_.”

Vegeta was done with this. To hell with all this voodoo crap, whatever tale she was trying to spin, he was _done_ with it. “You’re telling me,” he snapped, throwing out a disbelieving hand, “that somehow, somewhere, there is an actual frickin ZOMBIE walking around and NO ONE knows about it?! Come on, fucking SHOW HIM TO ME,” he demanded.

Everyone glanced at Krillin, who started to sweat, seemingly wanting to melt into the ground. 

They _had_ to be joking.

Krillin let out a nervous, guilty laugh.

“…Seriously?” Vegeta asked, deadpan.

Bulma slapped her hand to Krillin’s brow, shoving the poor man’s head back so she could point excitedly at his neck. “Six years ago, Krillin got his neck broken, killing him instantly. After we used the Dragon Balls, he came back: 24 hours after CLINICAL DEATH.”

The bald guy did have an impressive marking on his neck, but it was going to take a hell of a lot more than that to convince Vegeta that these tiny baubles could resurrect the goddamn dead. Fuck, what was Bulma doing? She was smarter than this, if she was trying to get him on her side there were a million other tales she could have spun that wouldn’t have sounded half so ridiculous as this stupid fucking story she was feeding him.

“I don’t believe any of that crap. It’s way too crazy,” he flat out told her.

“As you wish,” she shrugged, not looking too surprised, or offended. “But think about it, Vegeta: if they’re just some random drugs, how come not only Frieza, but the former Red Ribbon gang AND the rest of the underground world are looking for them so desperately?”

…She had a point. The hunt for the Dragon Balls had been heating up in the underworld, the goddamn holy grail of the black market. Still, that didn’t make her story any more true… did it? 

Vegeta put a hand over his mouth, thinking. 

“There _must_ be something really special about these, right?” Bulma continued. She shut the briefcase, her fingers delicately perched over the lid. “Something that makes all these powerful people want them so badly…”

She was right.

Frieza had gone to an awful lot of effort for these Dragon Balls: the intel gathering, surveillance, assassinations, and backroom deals. And that barely scratched the surface of all the shady shit he’d organized for those damn Balls. And Frieza had never even said what they fucking _were_. Not that Frieza ever shared much with anyone, but he had been more cryptic than usual, even for him. A lot of odd inconsistencies suddenly started to make a whole lot of fucking sense…

Including why he’d been kept alive and set on her tail…

_“She tricked us both, Vegeta… And I believe you know how to strike back.”_

He was being used as a goddamn hunting dog, salivating and biting at the bit to be let loose and set his teeth into the nearest fucking target.

Because that’s what he did best, wasn’t it? Just a useless, mindless fucking tool…

“Now,” she said, snapping him out of his inner thoughts. His eye dragged up to her face, watching her, and she looked back at him, her expression unusually serious. “You don’t have to help us. It’s dangerous to protect these. But given that you’re from the underground and know your way around it much better than any of us, you’d be a _huge_ asset.” 

 _Asset_. It was cold and business like. He could appreciate that.

He just hadn’t expected it from _her_. It was a stark contrast to the Bulma who spoke of butterfly tattoos and chocolate chip muffins.

He said nothing, thinking, his mind at war over what to believe.

Who to believe.

“I’m only asking you think about it,” she added, her tone softening.

“Sure…” he said as noncommittally as possible, eyeing the briefcase as if it were a ticking time bomb. His mind whirring.

Plotting.

She put the briefcase back into the side room. He stayed in his seat, lost to his thoughts. The others started talking around him, finally acclimatized to his presence. He blocked out their discussions, sinking deeper and deeper into his brooding, contemplating the bombshell of responsibility she had dropped on his shoulders.

Help? She wanted _his_ help?

He didn’t _help_ people! He broke them. Killed them. Unmade them. 

He didn’t even know how to help himself. How the fuck was he supposed to help her, and why the fuck should he even try?

She had lied to him… 

 _To protect herself, same as you. Was she really so wrong to do so? Just look at the way you reacted after all_ …

He grit his teeth, denying the logic of his own thoughts, replaying everything over in his mind, Frieza’s and Bulma’s words spinning, dancing, contradicting each other. Where did one’s lies end and the other’s truths begin?

Had she even lied to him… _really_? She was certainly acting like she hadn’t, like she had only withheld certain truths from him and had now laid everything out on the table, both metaphorically and literally. He was beginning to see that those holes in her story had unwittingly left room for Frieza to take advantage of him, to nurture doubt, betrayal…

Vegeta had been played, and not, as it turned out, by her.

Fucking _Frieza_ , that smug, manipulative _bastard_ …

And worse, was a voice in his head telling him that he had known. He had known all along but had gone along with it, gladly fallen down that rabbit hole of madness and loathing…

And if Frieza were to blame in all this, did that mean she hadn’t actually betrayed him? That what they had shared hadn’t all been a lie? But if that were the case, then that meant he had almost…

He had to get out.

He was conflicted and shell shocked, feeling hollow now that he no longer wore his rage about him like armor, like a glowing ball of energy that fueled and justified his need for revenge. Vegeta tried to slip out while they were engaged in discussing dinner.

“Hey… Going back already?”

Fuck _damnit_. Of course she’d caught him trying to leave. And what was worse, he was kind of glad she had.

Fuck, he was pathetic.

His feet came to a stop before the front door, her words wrapping around him with aching familiarity, keeping him from leaving. He swallowed thickly. It wasn’t the voice she had been using around _them_. It was the voice she used when it was just _him_ , and it never occurred to him before that she had a tone she used for him alone. That piece of information sliced through him like a piece of jagged glass, making his fingers twitch in pain.

He considered what she said. Going back? Going back _where_? He had nowhere to go back to. Frieza wouldn’t be terribly forgiving of the mess of bodies Vegeta had left behind, and even if he was the kind of man to give second chances, Vegeta was done with taking Frieza’s orders. He wasn’t going to be anyone’s goddamn tool anymore. He had made sure to burn all those bridges, and now all but one remained waiting to be burnt or crossed… Her.

“It’s snowing a storm outside…” she added, her voice still soft, stepping closer.

He looked over his shoulder at her and saw she’d taken off her sweater, was wearing a delicate, v-cut top that hugged her petite frame. God, she was pretty. Her top looked soft, and he bet it would feel nice to run his hands all over it.

All over her.

The beat of his heart quickened, his palms suddenly sweaty. They were alone, sheltered in the entryway, the others further off inside the house allowing them some privacy. Vegeta didn’t know what to say to her, didn’t how to be with her after everything that had happened, everything that she was so blissfully, ignorantly, enviably unaware of. 

Galick still weighed in his pocket, a heavy reminder of what he’d almost done.

What he could still do. Might do.

…He was a _monster_.

He didn’t deserve her. Never had. He had to _get the fuck out of here._

Her soft voice broke his thoughts. “You could stay the night… We have room…” she tempted, standing right next to him now. He tried to keep his shield of skepticism up, tried to hold on to his armor of anger, but he was losing it, the wrath slipping away through the cracks, whittling down until he was left with little but a heavy dose of doubt.

_You have to get out. Now._

…Yet he lingered.

Her soft hand touched his chest, gently coaxing him to face her, and he turned towards her, helpless to resist. She brought her other hand beside the first, the warmth of her palms radiating through his sweatshirt, igniting something cold and broken and barely beating under his ribs.

“And if I remember right…” she murmured, her voice dropping lower still. She looked up at him coquettishly, a soft, playful smile curling her lips, only inches from him. He didn’t respond, couldn’t move. He was broken, destroyed. 

She ruined him and he hated her. No… He _wanted_ to hate her because that would be easier.

But he couldn’t.

Why? God fucking damnit _WHY_ couldn’t he be _free_ of her?! Why did she slip past every one of his goddamn defenses, curl herself into his mind and devastate him _every fucking time_?! It wasn’t fair, it was a goddamn cosmic joke! It wasn’t supposed to be this way, not for him. He felt _nothing_ , he was emotionless, dispassionate; a cold, calculating, murdering, killing machi-

“I did promise you a night with ‘no talking’… Didn’t I?” 

Oh god… God fucking damn her…

He felt a great rend in his armor, splitting it wide open, and in his moment of vulnerability she leaned in and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. His breath left him and something broke inside his chest. He felt himself bleed all over the place, bleeding feelings he’d been trying to bottle up — feelings her kiss reawakened. 

He turned and leaned his cheek against hers. She smelt _amazing_. She gently cupped his face, careful of his injuries, encouraging, cradling him to her, and his heart stopped. It was the single most tender gesture of his life. He raised his hand to her wrist, his fingers ghosting over her. Her skin was so achingly soft, and he marveled at her capacity to not recoil from someone as black and broken as he was.

Was this real? Was she? It was easy to think she had fucked him over because betrayal and double-crossing was all he understood. What he didn’t understand was attachment, it left him fucking clueless and overwhelmed. But for once in his life he didn’t want to shy from it. He had nowhere left to go, no where deeper to fall. All he had left was her and a pitiable yearning for something better that she evoked within him. He wanted her, and he wanted what she offered.

Vegeta didn’t know if he’d live much beyond the morning, not once Frieza came after him for killing Nappa, for running off, and for what he planned to do next… So for one night, just for one night, he wanted to pretend that none of that other shit mattered, that she was just Bulma and he was just Vegeta. He wished he had gotten to better know who both of them were, but time had run out. Tonight was all they had left. Whatever affection he could squeeze out of his black, twisted soul, he wanted to give it to her.

To _his_ Bulma. To the girl next door.

Her bittersweet siren song had wrapped around him, enveloping him, and it shattered the last of his resolve.

He swept her up in his arms, and she was startled by the suddenness of his embrace but soon melted against him, hugging him back. He held her tightly, possessively. Bulma was everything he had left, representing every good thing he’d ever been fortunate enough to experience, more than he ever fucking deserved or could ever be worthy of. She was his life raft, his savior, and his downfall.

Vegeta buried his face against her shoulder, his grip tightening, clinging to her. He clenched his teeth, choking back silent tears. He was going to fucking die tomorrow, but at least he could take this memory of her with him.

 

* * *

 

~~ox0xo~~

 

 **Beta-read by** **Artephile/Marcella-Duchamp,** my editing hero **:)**

 

 _DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is stupidoomdoodle’s idea. I’m just playing in their sandboxes, very graciously by Dooms too I might add. Stupidoomdoodles and LadyVegeets can be found on_ **_twitter_ ** _,_ **_tubmlr_ ** _and_ . Girl Next Door comic can also be found on **_smackjeeves_ ** _. Read it, love it, be haunted by it, like I am._

 

 


	10. GND - 09 Needed Me

**_NB:_ ** _Based on_ **_chapter 2,_ ** _of the_ **_“Girl Next Door”_ ** _comic by_ **_stupidoomdoodles,_ ** _occurring after_ **_**_‘Just for One Night’,_ ** _ ** __up to and including_ _ **_**_‘Jaded’,_ ** _ ** _which can be found on_ **_smackjeeves_** _. This is all mostly Dooms’ headcanon, I’ve just come in to reverently flesh it out a little. ;)_

**_Very NSFW_ **

  
****

**Girl Next Door**

**09 - Needed Me**

 

The warmth of Bulma’s hand seeped past his fingerless gloves. She was pulling him along the hallway by his hand, and wordlessly, he followed. He couldn’t stop looking at their entwined hands. The paleness of her skin and the soft perfection of it stood in stark contrast to his own fingers, tanned and scarred, knuckles swollen from mashing into countless faces and bodies over the years. They were so opposite, her and him, even down to their hands. They shouldn’t have had anything in common, their worlds should never have crossed. Everything about them existing together was counterintuitive. Yet here they were, hand in hand, her invitation to spend the night still buzzing in his head. Vegeta willingly followed at her heels, hoping that somehow Bulma could alleviate the bleakness inside him, the same way her hand warmed his cold fingers. He was aware of a hollow emptiness clawing at his soul. And fuck, it had been there for _years_ , but not until Bulma came along, and tore off the scab concealing it had he become aware of it, and of how miserable his life really was. He needed something to take away the numbing emptiness swallowing him, to lose himself entirely in something that wasn’t roiling self-pity and hatred. He needed _her_.

They emerged back into the main space of the house.

“Vegeta is going to spend the night,” Bulma announced to the room.

“Where?” the short one, Krillin, asked, sounding skeptical. Distrustful. Good. At least _someone_ around here was thinking soundly.

The kid’s head popped up from behind his book. “He could use the room I’m in,” he suggested. “I can sleep on the sofa.”

“That’s okay, Gohan. Vegeta is going to stay with me.” Bulma smiled at the boy, then glanced at Vegeta for confirmation. Squeezing his hand. He swallowed, and finally tightened his own fingers over hers. Silently agreeing.

“Oh, _lovely_ , with the kid here and everything,” Krillin grumbled under his breath, looking disgusted. 

Bulma shot Krillin a death glare. 

Krillin rolled his eyes, throwing his hands in the air, but didn’t make any further complaints as to the sleeping arrangements.

Ignoring him, Bulma turned her attention back to Vegeta. “You hungry?”

He shook his head. He supposed he should be hungry. When had he last eaten? Oh yeah, right before he killed Nappa. That felt like forever ago, but Vegeta couldn’t find his appetite. “Just tired,” he said, his voice gruff.

Bulma nodded, giving his hand another squeeze and she started leading them away, down towards the side room he had seen her take the dragon balls. “Alright then. We’ll be going to bed. Good night, everyone!”

“Shout if you need any help!” Roshi called after them, in a very suggestive tone.

Bulma flipped Roshi the bird before pulling Vegeta inside the room. She shut the door, locking it for good measure. She didn’t turn on the lights. The glow from outside illuminated the room enough to see each other by. They were finally alone.

“Sorry about them,” Bulma apologized, giving Vegeta a soft smile. She still held his hand, and he was starting to feel awkward about it. Shouldn’t she have let go by now? But at the same time, he was glad that she hadn’t. It felt like she was the only thing anchoring him to his sanity at this point. 

“So,” she said, stepping in. He felt his heart start thumping in response. His body reacted to her nearness, aching to feel her against him, to touch her, to press his nose into her hair, or maybe against the crook of her throat. Memories from their last session on her couch flooded him. Grinding hips, clinging hands, an intense undoing… He wanted that again, wanted to shut out the reality of the world and lose himself in her, but he didn’t know how to initiate, frozen in his own body. Caged. 

Bulma was less so. She pulled her fingers from his, and for a humiliating second he panicked. But then she took his hand and placed it on her hip. Oh. Fuck. He hoped she hadn’t seen his reaction. He swallowed, cautiously placing his fingers on her tiny hip. She gave an encouraging smile, resting her palms on his chest. “Where were we?”

His chest swelled at her touch. He wished he wasn’t wearing such a thick goddamn sweater so he could feel her better. Swallowing, his fingers tightened further over her hip, but he didn’t have the guts to pull her in. Fuck, why was this so friggin’ difficult? Was he supposed to say something? 

She saved him from figuring out what to do as she stepped in and pressed up against him. His whole body came awake at her warmth, like a coiled snake unfurling in the sun. Bit by bit he felt the hollow void inside him start to fill with something light and comforting.

“Right. A night with no talking,” she mumbled against his mouth. “To be honest, I’m not sure I can uphold that. I’ve been told I’m a talker.”

He huffed a laugh, caught off guard by her comment. No _shit_ she was a talker.

Her grin widened, delighted to have amused him. “Oh, so you _can_ smile.” 

Real fucking cute. He grimaced, which only made her laugh, and far more freely than he had done, the sound of her voice soft and inviting. And a little breathless. Her face was only inches from his, her tiny body in his hands. He noticed the pink in her cheeks. Her dilated eyes. The rapid rise and fall of her chest. Oh fuck… she was excited.

Something clicked in his brain, something primal, almost forgotten from lack of use. Bulma was _turned on_ , because of him. Vegeta grabbed her tighter and pulled her into his hips. She yelped, before a salacious grin took over her face. Approving. It was all that was needed to cross that final line.

She pressed her mouth to his in a kiss. The hot caress of her lips on his was glorious. His dam of hesitation broke, and he kissed her back, leaning eagerly into her. Pulling her snuggly against him by the hollow of her back, and slipping one hand into her hair to hold her close. It was nothing like the coy kisses they had shared before. This was full of hunger. Lust. Need. Her slender arms wrapped about his neck and pulled him in. He devoured her with a desperation he didn’t know he could possess. If this was the last time he would hold her, he wanted to drink up everything she had.

Her fingers hooked into the neck of his hoodie, tugging on the loose fabric, pulling him closer still. As if they could _get_ closer, already mashed together like those goddamn macarons. She moaned into the kiss. It was doing something to his brain, devastating his rational thought until all that was left was the need to have her. He put weight into his hand at the small of her back, and she arched against him, far too eager. She started to grind against him. Sweet fuck did he want to be inside of her. But things were spinning out of control, traveling down a frantic path that was going to have him blow his load in about three minutes flat. Like he wanted a repeat of _that_ again. Not when this was going to be the only night they got together…

Her fingers snuck up the hem of his hoodie. He let out a hiss as she touched his bare belly, dragging her fingers through the hair that trailed down beneath his jeans. His cock twitched hard at the promise. _Fffuck_ …

“Bulma,” he groaned, trying to get her attention.

“Like that?” she asked, her eyes hooded. “You’re gonna love this-”

“Wait.”

She paused, still breathing hard from their kissing. Her fingers hovered at the waist of his pants. She gave him a questioning look, searching his face. “What’s wrong?”

His brow furrowed with consternation. He looked away. His heart was about to explode from his chest. He struggled to find the words.

When he couldn’t spit them out, she placed her hand on his cheek. Her head dipped to the side, trying to catch his eyes. “What is it, tough guy?” she asked, her voice soft and understanding. Her nickname for him felt like a punch to the gut. 

“Let’s just… take this slower… please?” he grit out.

Bulma’s eyes widened, reeling back. “Oh… Oh yeah. Oh my god, of course! I’m sorry, I’m rushing, aren’t I?” she apologized. “I just got so excited… It’s been so long since I’ve… I mean, I haven’t slept with anyone, since we’ve met, haha… You just felt so good, and I couldn’t stop myself because it was like all the fantasies I’ve been having about you for so long, and…” her babbling trailed off, and she looked up at him from under her bangs, her eyes dark with lust. 

Vegeta very nearly came in his pants. Again. _Fuck_ , why did she have such a powerful goddamn effect over him? Hearing that she felt the same way, that she hadn’t been with anyone else, that she had been fantasizing about him… Wait, she had fantasized about him _how_? What exactly went on in that clever little mind of hers? His cock throbbed just considering the possibilities. If only he dared to ask, but he wasn’t sure he could handle the answers right now without creaming himself.

Her hands smoothed down his hoodie. She gave him a soft kiss on his cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said again, calmer this time, collected. “I didn’t mean to pressure you.” She gave him a gentle look. “You’re a virgin, right? I kind of figured, after last time. It’s okay, I promise I’ll take good care of you.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line. Something uneasy weighed on his chest. “No, that’s not it.” He looked at her, her blue eyes watching him expectantly. Oh shit… He glanced away. “You’re just… the first woman I haven’t had to pay to get into.”

The silence was deafening. Crushing.

“…Oh…” She finally managed.

Vegeta frowned, his throat dry. Shame was not a feeling he was familiar with, but being around Bulma certainly had him getting better acquainted with all sorts of new feelings, didn’t it? He had never felt guilty about fucking whores before. It was just how things were done in his crew; fucking whores meant no attachments. But Bulma’s reaction to his confession gave birth to a slithering uncomfortableness that Vegeta was beginning to think felt an awful lot like shame.

_Why the fuck did you tell her that?_

Why the fuck did he tell her _anything_? It was like there was another part of him actively out to sabotage himself. Trying to put her off with his brute honesty. Testing her. Seeing what it would take for her to turn from him in disgust, because seriously, what the fuck would it take at this point? Why wasn’t she disgusted with him yet? And why was he so desperately hoping she would put up with it?

What the fuck was _wrong_ with him?

“So,” Bulma broke the silence, bringing him back to the present. “…Then I take it you’ve never been with anyone… _genuinely_?”

He looked at her warily, uncertain of her meaning. “…They all seemed pretty _genuinely_ interested in the money I paid.”

“Riiight. That’s… that’s really lovely, Vegeta,” Bulma replied sarcastically. He felt his mouth turn down, along with his confidence. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to curl away and hide this part of himself he had unwittingly bared to her. “That’s not what I meant,” Bulma added before he could spiral down further in self-deprecation. “You’ve had sex, but, you’ve never, uh, for lack of a better term, ‘ _made love_ ’?”

He lifted his head to give her an incredulous look, one brow winging up cynically. _Him_? Make _love_? Who the shit did she think she was talking to?

Bulma gave him a wry, half smile, taking his disbelief as her answer. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Leaning in, she looped her arms about his neck, pinning her slender weight against him. Her smile stretched smugly as she caught his gaze. He hoped his vulnerability wasn’t written as clearly across his face as it felt like it might be. Her breath teased his lips, their noses almost touching. 

“So you _are_ a virgin.”

“Tch.” Heat rose to his face, of what little he could spare that hadn’t already headed south. His interest in her hadn’t waned, and neither, it appeared, had hers in him.

“Don’t leave, okay? I’ll be right back,” she told him, and kissed the corner of his mouth. His fingers flinched, wanting to hold on to her, suddenly nervous about her leaving. But he didn’t keep her. He had no right to cling to her. She must have seen the doubt in his eyes, for she paused to explain. “I’m going to see if I can steal one of Roshii’s condoms.”

Oh. _Oh_.

A thought struck him. Reaching into his back pocket, Vegeta extracted his wallet. He could feel Bulma’s eyes on him as he opened it. He searched inside. A frown took over his brow when, instead of the condom that should have been there, he found a little yellow piece of folded paper.

He pulled it out, opening the note.

“What’s that?” Bulma asked.

 _Hey V. Owe you one. Thnx, -R_. 

Fucking _great_.

“Well, it’s not a goddamn condom,” Vegeta huffed, annoyed. “…I’ll kill him.” Oh wait, Raditz was already dead. Goddamn it. Vegeta shoved his wallet away, irritated by Raditz’s thievery, and his own inability to exact revenge. When had the little bastard even taken it? Vegeta hadn’t exactly needed a latex in a long goddamn while so it could have happened months ago. But now that he did need it, of course Raditz had to muck the whole thing up for him. Even in death the useless moron still screwed him over. 

Bulma’s brows rose. “ _You_ carry a condom on you?”

“I thought I did,” Vegeta grouched. “Frieza’s rules.” Frieza didn’t want the headache of his men coming down with venereal diseases, or a bad case of Sudden Parenthood. Those caught with either were severely reprimanded. Besides, protection was just common sense; like hell Vegeta was going to stick his dick in something he didn’t trust.

 _Does that mean you trust her_?

I…

“Then you’ve always worn protection?” Bulma asked, cocking her head. He blinked. Her hands came up to toy with the hair at the back of his neck. It was making it hard to concentrate.

“Yes..?” he answered. It was a question, curious as to why she cared.

She tightened her hold, drawing them together. His hands rose on their own accord to grip her waist. Her lithe, warm body melted against him. Fuck it felt right to hold her like this. 

“Then you’re clean?” she said.

Oh, so that was it. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Encouraging.”

What did she want, a fucking blood test? “Tch. And you?” he deflected.

“All clear,” she reassured him with a smile. “I got tested when I found out my last boyfriend cheated on me.”

He shouldn’t have cared, but he found himself annoyed. What kind of moron would cheat on someone like her? A fucking idiot. “Sounds like an ass,” he grouched.

Bulma laughed. “Yeah, I suppose. But I’m more interested in _your_ ass right now. And _you_ touching _mine_ ,” she suggested with a grin. She gave him a coy kiss, and he felt his walls crumbling away. “That is, if you feel comfortable with that,” she husked.

He did, more than comfortable, and grateful that he somehow hadn’t fucking ruined the mood. Vegeta grabbed the swell of her ass in both hands. He lifted her up easily; she weighed nothing. Bulma let out a breathless, delighted squeal. He felt the corners of his mouth hook up. 

Carrying her the short distance to the bed, he laid her down, careful to cradle her head, easing it on the pillow. Bulma pulled him down with her to crush their mouths together. For a while they made out on the bed, pressed hotly together, exploring each other’s mouths and enjoying the slow grind of their bodies. 

“I want to feel your skin on me,” she gasped against his mouth, tugging at his hoodie. 

Fuck yes, that sounded good. He sat up, removing his hoodie and shirt together in one clean gesture. Beneath him, Bulma shimmied out of her own top. She looked so endearing, wriggling around, trying to take off the tight shirt while trapped under his thighs. He caught himself smiling. Offering his help, Vegeta slipped her shirt over her delicate arms, revealing her creamy body. Her bra was simple, a cute teal, and that was all the time he got to admire it before she had it unhooked and thrown off the side of the bed. He might have berated her for not taking it slow if he wasn’t so appeased by the sight of her breasts. Fuck, they were… they were fucking _perfect_.

Holy shit.

This was really happening.

He was really going to fuck her.

A tight ball of anxiety formed his belly, and for a few heart beats Vegeta froze, staring down at her, not knowing what to do. God fucking damn it, she was right. He had no idea how to be with a woman he wasn’t planning just to fuck for his own gratification.

He must have been an open goddamn book too, because her expression softened. She gave him a sympathetic smile. “Hey tough guy, don’t leave me waiting,” she gently coaxed. Her hands brushed his cheeks, down to his neck. “You okay?”

He nodded stiffly, not knowing what else to do. His mind in turmoil.

Her thumbs rubbed the tension in his neck and shoulders. “It’s alright if you’re not okay, you know.”

Oh. Okay, good. Because _fffuuck_ …

“I just want to feel you against me,” she whispered. Tempting. Her eyes were dark, a blue as deep as the sea, and he wanted to drown in them. “Is there anything you want to do to _me_?”

Fuck. What _didn’t_ he want to do to her? He wanted to eat her up, ravish her. He wanted to bury himself in her in every way that he could until he forgot about her deceit and his miserable fucked up life and soon-to-be-probable-death. Until all that was left was them, just them, stripped bare of everything else; honest, raw, and panting for each other. 

His gaze fell again to her soft breasts, her pink nipples painfully erect. He could start with those, and he wanted to. He lowered on to his forearms, watching her face carefully, schooling his own lest he give away too much. “I want to put your nipple in my mouth,” he said, meaning to sound matter-of-fact, but his voice came out deeper, huskier than usual.

Her fingers tightened at his suggestion and the tone of his voice. She wet her lips and gave a quick nod, her voice coming out breathless. “Yeah. Y-you should do that.”

He moved his arms, scooping up her back into his palms. She gasped. He raised a brow, glancing at her. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing accelerated. Fuck, she was needy. It sent something electric through his nerves, his fingers curling possessively against her shoulder blades. She wanted him. The knowledge was a goddamn drug in his veins, the best kind of ego boost, and he was ready to be swept up by it.

Her nipples were so pert and rosy, tempting him, teasing him. Vegeta took one in his mouth. Bulma bit back a whimper, arching up. Her breathy sounds filled the room, and he closed his eyes to better enjoy her cries. He ran his tongue against her nipple, her tiny body undulating under him in response. It made him want to press into her, hold her down, overpower her. His cock throbbed in his pants, heavy and aching. Vegeta gave in, settling on top of her, his thighs either side hers, luxuriating in trapping her small form between his body and the bed. He drew her nipple further into his hungry mouth, sucking fervently on the tight bud, knowing she couldn’t escape.

“Ah~!” she gasped wretchedly. Her fingers pushed up into his hair, tugging at his roots. In pleasure or discomfort Vegeta wasn’t sure, so he reluctantly let her nipple go with a wet pop to check her reaction. She looked drunk, flushed, desperate. It made his blood pound to see her that way. “O-oh why?” she moaned, a small whine in her voice. “Why did you stop?”

Vegeta felt the hint of a smirk play at his mouth. She liked that, huh? “Your nipple isn’t the only thing I want in my mouth,” he told her truthfully. His hands slipped down, thumbs suggestively brushing over her jutting hip bones. He wanted all of her, to take everything from her, the way she had stripped everything from him.

Bulma sucked in a tight breath, her brows rising. “…Oh my god, Vegeta, I’m going to cum right now if you keep saying things like that.”

Finally, he allowed himself to smirk. He looked down at her body, pressing his lips to her sternum, and slowly kissed down the soft flat of her abdomen. Her skin prickled at his touch, and he licked and bit at her flesh, just to hear her reactions. Her breathing hitched when he kissed her lower belly, just above her pants. Slowly he undid her button and fly, revealing cotton underwear. He placed a kiss on them too and inhaled. He could smell her, something warm, sweet and feminine. It was a goddamn aphrodisiac, making his blood roar and pool hotly in his throbbing cock. He could barely control himself as he slipped her pants down her slender legs and off the bed. Once at her ankle, he kissed his way up her long, pale leg, gently pushing her limbs apart until he could kiss his way to her inner thigh, mapping every inch of her with his mouth. She trembled and sighed, her fingers fisting in the sheets, her tiny hips lifting in restless need.

He was back at her panties. Her underwear spoke ‘everyday’. She hadn’t been wearing anything special, hadn’t been planning on getting fucked. Yet here they were. She was letting him fuck her. It wasn’t premeditated, and somehow that made it all the better. Something possessive curled inside of him, thick and heavy with the need to claim her. 

He hooked his fingers under the waistline of her panties. 

“H-oh god,” she whimpered.

He glanced up to make sure she was okay. Her hands were over her face, her breathing ragged. She didn’t stop him. He continued, slowly, ever so slowly pulling the flimsy fabric over the swell of her hips, revealing soft blue fuzz. As he pulled the panties off, a wet, sticky string came with them. Her pretty pink lips glistened with the evidence of how badly she wanted this. Fuck she was wet. Soaked, for him.

He was fucking _done for_.

A small sound escaped his throat, something caught between a groan and a growl. He tore her panties off the rest of the way before grabbing her thighs, spreading her wider. She gasped, right before he ran his tongue against her lips, licking up the shining wetness. She squealed and bucked. Oh fuck, she tasted good, _unbearably_ good. Did all women taste this way? Whatever, who the fuck cared about other women, only _she_ mattered, only her and this goddamn taste on his tongue. He needed more of it, _all_ of it. 

He slipped his tongue along her, running it between her lips, against her tiny, fluttering hole. Bulma wailed, her hips jerking upwards. He had to push her back down, an easy feat given how small she was. He moved his mouth, pressing his lips to her, eating up all that he could get as Bulma sobbed and babbled. Her hands fisted in his hair, tugging him fervently.

“Oh fuck, please, Vegeta, I-I’m gonna cum if you d-don’t stop-!”

Selfishly he growled, a lusty moan that reverberated from deep within his chest. He pushed his tongue inside her and grabbed her tightly, lifting her hips to taste deeper inside.

Bulma cried out, the sound echoing in the room. No doubt heard throughout the house. He should have been embarrassed. Instead he hoped they all heard, hoped they all knew that Bulma was _his_.

“Vegeta~! Ah~h!” Bulma wailed, arching back as she came on his mouth. He gripped her pale thighs, holding her as she shuddered. He ate up everything she had to give him, his eyes locked to her face, drinking in the sight, burning her expressions to his memory. Finally, he eased back his attentions, licking her gently as her hips stopped bucking and she sagged back into the bed. She panted hard, struggling for air, her tiny frame wracked with tremors. 

He wiped his mouth with his thumb, compelled to place a last kiss on her inner thigh. She was sated, but he was intoxicated, burning with hunger, barely held together, a molten creature of swelling need. He was drunk on the sight of her, the sound of her voice in his ears, the taste of her in his mouth. She was the most perfect, pure thing he had ever encountered, and like all things in his life, especially the good ones, he felt compelled to ruin her.

 He crawled up the bed, sheltering her limp body with his own hard physique. Overwhelmed with the need to protect her from the world. He took her tiny face in his palms and watched as she struggled for normalcy. Her cheeks were flushed, burning hot, her eyes drunk and barely able to find him in the dark, her lashes dotted with tears. Her pink lips curled into a soft smile. “Vegeta-”

He kissed her, stopping her words. Words couldn’t express what this was, they paled next to the tumultuous feelings stirring inside him. He didn’t want any more lies, or any false promises neither of them could keep. He just wanted her, in all her raw sincerity. Whatever scrap of tenderness he could muster from his blackened heart, he wanted to give it to her, now, in this kiss.

Perhaps she understood. She kissed him back just as hungrily, her fingers pushing into the hair at his temples, her legs wrapping up about his waist. It occurred to him that she could taste herself on his mouth, and that made his cock ache all the more. He barely let them gasp for air, diving right back in for fear that if he stopped, the spell of whatever this was would break.

“Pants!” Bulma finally gasped. It was odd enough to make him pause, glancing at her with a questioning brow. “Take off your pants,” she clarified. “I want you in me.”

He had never shucked clothing off so quickly in his goddamn life, not even when Raditz had caught him on fire that one time. Vegeta’s boxer briefs were damp with precum. He had to peel them off his swollen cock to toss them aside. Naked, at last. He paused when he saw her sit up on her elbows, looking at him, her bangs over her eyes as she took him in. 

For a heartbeat, Vegeta felt uncertain. His body was strong, he knew that, perfectly hardened for murder and mayhem. And scarred, quite horribly in some places. Bulma had never appeared bothered by any of it before, but he was exposed to her now in a way that left him feeling very vulnerable, his cock jutting up eagerly between them. Did she… approve? 

Bulma’s eyes lingered on his bobbing length, sucking in her bottom lip. “H-oh my god, it’s _perfect_ ,” she breathed. “I want it inside me _right now_.”

Something warm and tight unfurled in his chest. He came back towards her. Bulma parted her legs willingly. The gesture alone ignited a need to accept what she offered. Right. Fucking. Now.

He settled on top of her, their hips together. His cock found her easily, drawn to her cunt like a goddamn star to a blackhole, inescapable. She was still so wet. The hot slide against her slippery lips felt _incredible_. If only he could have died then, like this, in her arms. 

“H-oh Vegeta, please, I can’t stand it, _please_ just fuck me already, please!” she begged brokenly.

Vegeta hated taking orders, begrudged every million and one he had ever had to follow in his life. But not this one. This request he was only too happy to fulfill. 

He took his cock to get the angle right before pushing the head inside her. Sweet fuck, she was so incredibly warm and wet. It felt like heaven. He couldn’t remember any of the whores he had been with ever feeling this good. They didn’t even compare. Nothing could.

There was a moment where she struggled to adjust. She whimpered and he stilled, his heart in his throat at having hurt her. Then he felt her relax as she eased out a breath, and his worry eased with her. She gave way, and he gently rocked inside her, feeling her loosen up and envelop him. “Oooh yessss… mmm, god, yes, Vegeta…” she purred happily.

He buried his face against the crook of her neck, feeling too raw, too good, needing to just… take a goddamn moment to process everything. To smother himself in her. Bulma wrapped her arms about him and held him close as he slowly fucked her, getting to know her from the inside out. It was amazing, feeling each individual stroke, feeling the way she arched each time he breached her, hearing the way she gasped and moaned. He wanted it all, more. He was a drowning man, a dying man, and she was his salvation.

He grabbed her close and started moving more powerfully. She stroked his confidence, her moans and breathy ‘yes’s, ‘more’s and ‘oh fuck’s telling him he was doing it right.

He wanted it to last forever, or at least most of the night. But he had been eager from the very start, had wanted to bury himself inside her sweet cunt ever since she offered that evening. Fuck, ever since he had fucking met her, if he was being brutally honest. 

“Vegeta~! _Harder_ ~!” she sobbed, her nails raking his shoulders and arms. She made tiny, pathetic mewls, and he raised his head to watch her face as he fucked her. He hit inside her, roughly now, unrestrained, yet she took it and begged for more. She was incredible. Her brow was furrowed, her pretty bow mouth gasping for air. He couldn’t look away, enraptured. He could feel his balls tightening, his dick pulsing, but it was inconsequential to watching Bulma come apart.

Her eyes slit open, and he was caught in pull of her gaze. “You gonna cum in me, tough guy?” she moaned.

He lost it. With a desperate thrust he spilled himself inside. Bulma groaned and slipped a hand between them, touching her clit as she followed him down the same path for a second time. Feeling her constrict and milk his cock was beautiful, and it dragged out his pleasure.

He finally collapsed over her, shaking and sweaty, barely keeping himself up on his forearms. She coaxed him down, taking all his weight against her body, wrapping her thighs over his hips, still grinding against him, eking out her own climax. 

He didn’t notice his eyes had fluttered closed until she wiped her fingers over his damp forehead. He blinked and looked up at her, seeing her sweaty blue bangs stuck to her brow. He pushed them back, and stroked her face. 

She smiled up at him beatifically. “Good job.”

He continued petting her face. “You too.”

She laughed, softly, breathlessly. “You’re really amazing, you know that? I can’t believe I used to be scared of you.”

“You were?” She was? It was honestly surprising. Bulma never seemed fazed by much. Certainly not by him, or so it had always felt.

“Just a little,” she admitted, scrunching her nose cutely. 

That made him feel better, to know she hadn’t been entirely immune to his intimidation tactics. And then it made him feel a whole lot worse, because it brought back memories he would rather not think of right now.

He pushed up, and pulled out of her.

“Oh, no…” she bemoaned, pouting over him leaving her.

“Bathroom?” he asked, ignoring her whining. 

She gave him directions. He left to wash up, not bothering to dress. The house was silent in sleep, or pretended to be at any rate. He doubted he would need clothes. He cleaned off the worst of the mess, then rinsed his face in the sink. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. ‘Amazing’, she had called him.

The face of a very un-amazing murderer stared back.

Grimacing, Vegeta turned off the light and returned to her room. He slipped back into bed. She stirred, already having drifted off, scooting closer to him. “You came back,” she mumbled sleepily, happily.

He barely grunted in reply.

She didn’t seem to mind, falling back asleep (if she had ever really woken up in the first place), her breathing evening out. He lay still, toying between the notion of sleep, of holding her, or the need to leave if he was to keep to his plan.

Time ticked by, counted by the soft rise and fall of her breathing.

* * *

~~oxo~~

 

It was quiet. Snow fell gently on the other side of the window. A soft glow from outside filtered into the room, light reflecting off the white blanketed world. It felt as if the whole city slept and was still. Everyone, except him.

The afterglow of sex had long since worn off, as cold now as the wet spots on the bed. 

Vegeta didn’t know how long he had been watching her sleep. It was the only thing keeping him together at this point. And that was the problem. _She_ was the problem.

She meant _everything_ to him. Fuck, she was all that he had left. He had given everything else up, maybe not _for_ her exactly, but it still didn’t change the fact that she was the one thing in his miserable life he hadn’t destroyed yet. And he was clinging to her. Like he _needed_ her. Dependent.

And he barely knew a thing about her, had no idea who the _fuck_ she was. Neighbor? Lover? Liar?

_You’ll never be able to move on with her holding you back._

His fingers twitched, his face scowling against his own thoughts.

_You used to be a monster. The thing people feared that lurked in the night. Now fucking look at you, mooning over a goddamn woman._

Shit, it was true. Here he was, laying in a strange bed, in a strange house, having thrown all caution to the fucking wind, all his plans aside, just to get between her legs. _You never cared about a fuck this much before._ No, but then, Bulma wasn’t just any fuck. There was no way he could compare what they had done tonight to the meaningless sex he had paid for in his past. Even Vegeta, as broken and jaded as he was, knew that what they had done hadn’t just been sex. She had even said as much. What had she called it? ‘Making love’? Fuck… _Fuck._ Thinking about their night together made Vegeta’s chest ache, his groin tightening with the memory. 

Bulma still rested across from him, sleeping peacefully at his side, unguarded. Her face was serene, relaxed in sleep. Her hair, disheveled from their activities. She was turned ever so slightly towards him, her hand resting by the pillow between them. Even in sleep she reached for him, still seeking to be connected to him. The sheet was pulled down, exposing her two soft, round breasts. She was the prettiest, most perfect thing he had ever seen. Watching her, Vegeta could almost imagine what it might be like to have her, every night. To fall asleep to. To wake up to. To come home to…

 _Next you’ll be wanting a white picket fence_.

Something dark grew in his gut. It was all wishful thinking. Useless. A waste of fucking time. That life wasn’t meant for him, for monsters, it was not his fate. And he had never fucking wanted it either, so what the fuck was he doing, thinking about it now? 

And what of her? What did Bulma want? Did she dream of a happy life, removed from crime, married with kids in a large house? Did _he_ fit into those dreams? Did she think she could somehow tame the murderer, transform the cold-blooded savage, humanize him, domesticate him? Fuck that. And fuck her. That wasn’t who he was, and they both fucking knew it.

Whatever they had, this goddamn fairytale evening had come to an end. Not the ending told to little children to coddle them. No, this was how the real stories ended, filled with darkness, warning, and woe.

The bad guys won. The good guys died. And two-faced, lying little girls were eaten…

 _“H-oh, Vegeta~”_ The memory of her breathless voice, tight with pleasure, brushed at the edges of his senses. It beckoned him to leave his dark thoughts, to follow her down, down into the depths of their night together, down where he could happily drown in her sighs and pants and soft body…

_She’ll destroy you._

He knew that, with certainty. She had already broken him, had already torn him apart, leaving pieces of what remained of his former self scattered about them. Waiting to be reformed, but into what, he didn’t know. Didn’t care to. He never wanted to change at all, but the choice had been taken from him. Now he was left to face the ugly question of what, who, he would be. It was unfamiliar territory. And that made him uncomfortable. 

_Don’t fool yourself, asshole. You haven’t changed as much as you would like to think._

I could just leave…

_You have to kill her._

…

_You want to kill her._

…

_That’s who you are, who you’ve always been, always will be. That’s why you came here, remember? Besides, if you can’t kill one bitch, what fucking hope do you have with Frieza?_

…

_She will get you killed._

_She lied to you. Used you._

_Do it, you fucking pussy._

_Do it._

_DO IT._

_You’ve murdered people your WHOLE FUCKING, MISERABLE LIFE. Do it, you pathetic fuck. DO IT._

Vegeta sat up carefully, his stomach roiling. He glanced warily to his side, seeing she hadn’t woken. Deep asleep. Trusting.

She wouldn’t feel a thing.

His heart rate picked up, beating in a way that left him feeling light headed, sweaty. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Her skin was soaked in the glow of the winter night, cast in an ethereal, dream-like quality. She was splayed before him. Given over to him, an offering. A sacrifice.

He swallowed. Allowing himself one last gentle touch, he committed her to memory, running the backs of his fingers over her perfect cheek in reverence. In apology.

It had to be done. He would never be free of her. She represented every good thing he should never have been allowed to have. Every temptation, every weakness, every change in him could all be pinpointed to her. Letting her live was tantamount to his own destruction. 

 _It’s necessary. She knew what she was getting herself into when she got wrapped up with you. Better her than you. Kill her before she ruins you completely_. 

His hand trailed down to her throat. His fingers wrapped snugly about her neck, just as they had done to hundreds of people before. He knew exactly how much pressure it would take - hardly any, for a tiny thing like her. Would he be able to snap her neck before she woke, or would her eyes startle open as he choked her? Would he be able to look her in the eye as he took her life? Would she cry? Would she fight him?

Would he go to her funeral after?

Would he keep a photo of her? Fuck, he didn’t even have one. They had never taken one together. How was he going to remember how blue her eyes were without one?

Oh no…

His chest tightened, stealing the air from his lungs. How many times had he lost himself in her blue eyes? Her pretty gaze, dancing with amusement, with understanding, with forgiveness. The same eyes that had been locked with his own just that evening, dilated with pleasure, fluttering half-closed as he had moved inside of her, as he listened to her beg for him, feeling the honesty of her words as her body clung to him until he broke, and her with him.

Oh god, this is wrong…

Vegeta’s fingers wouldn’t close. 

He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to protect her…

 _Do it, you fucking asshole. Do it. Do it… C’mon, you’re a bad guy. You’re a goddamn assassin. A killer. It’ll be over in seconds, and then you’ll be free of whatever fucking curse she has put on you. Do it, you piece of shit. It doesn’t matter that she was nice to you, that she fed you, took care of you, saved your life, talked to you like a human and not a useless peon, or that despite all your fucking faults, she_ likes _you and made love to-_

Oh shit. _Oh shit_ , I can’t. I fucking CAN’T!

He jerked his hand back, releasing her. Her lips parted as if sighing in relief, but she didn’t wake.

Vegeta stared down at his hand in concern. He didn’t know himself. Who the fuck was he? This hand had killed many. Hurt even more. Many of whom had been innocent, undeserving. That had never mattered to him before, and it still didn’t. But _she_ did.

Fuck. She mattered.

He couldn’t do it.

What did that mean?

_Fuck. Get out. Get out NOW._

His gaze slid to the right, over to where the briefcase rested on the cupboard. He got up, slipping out of the bed to approach the case, knowing that seven little balls of whatever-the-fuck rested inside. Maybe they granted some kind immortality or second life, like the woman had said. Maybe they didn’t. He didn’t really care. But Frieza did, and fucking Frieza over was all that mattered. It was all he could bring himself to care about. He was a monster after all, monsters didn’t care about others, and others certainly didn’t care about him… 

He gave Bulma one last look. She hadn’t moved. As if he hadn’t been there at all. …It was for the best. 

Vegeta slipped back into his clothes, and scooped up the case along with the shattered pieces of himself, and left. If Frieza wanted the dragon balls so badly, he was going to have to pay for them in blood.

He didn’t look back as he walked out on her for good. 

 

* * *

~~ox0xo~~

 

 **AN: Beta-read** by the amazing **Artephile** / **Marcella-Duchamp.**

 

DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is **stupidoomdoodle’s** idea. I’m just playing in their sandboxes, very graciously by Dooms too I might add. **Stupidoomdoodles** and **LadyVegeets** can be found on **twitter** , **tumblr**. Girl Next Door comic can also be found on **smackjeeves**. Read it, love it, comment on it, be haunted by it, like I am.

 **~Lady Vegeets**  
****


	11. GND - 10 Karma-sutra

**_NB:_ ** _Based on_ **_chapter 3,_ ** _occurring after_ **_‘Karma Police’,_ ** _of the_ **_“Girl Next Door”_ ** _comic by_ **_stupidoomdoodles,_ ** _which can be found on_ **_smackjeeves_** _._

 **_[I’ve also attempted to re-order all these chapters into a more chronological order. Unfortunately that means the ‘epilogue’ chapters are gonna be stuck in a weird place tho, and I’ll have to fix those later once I’ve completed this story. That’s what happens when you write out of order. Oops.]_ **  
****

**Girl Next Door**

**10 - Karma-sutra**

 

The briefcase sat on the floor, singular and foreboding. In the vast emptiness of the room it was as captivating and ominous as a black hole. It pulled, condensing time and space until all the air in the room had been sucked inside. It crushed his thoughts into a dense ball of bitter self-loathing, nestling it among the other orange seven.

Vegeta stared at the briefcase, and it stared back. It was an abyss filled with all his wrong doings, an embodiment of every mistake, every misstep and fuck-up that had lead him here. 

Dust floated in the illuminated air. The room of the dilapidated building reeked of the stuff. It stank of mildew and the suffocating sense of abandonment. Vegeta sat, huddled on the floor of the derelict apartment he had broken into after fleeing Bulma’s bed. His back was to the winter light, the sun casting his shadow long across the floor. His inky silhouette felt more substantial than he was. He was hollow, his thoughts sluggish and uncooperative. He should have been going over his plans regarding Frieza. Instead, his energy was sapped by a parasitic malaise. Or maybe it was the lack of sleep and hunger; he hadn’t attended to either need in days. 

He should have felt victorious. He had the dragon balls. 

So why was he so conflicted?

From the depths of the briefcase, an old memory resurfaced: Sisyphus. Vegeta had never received a formal education, but one of his ‘instructors’ had enjoyed classic literature. From time to time, he had regaled Vegeta with myths, heavily embellished with gruesome details. It was thanks to that instructor that Vegeta now found himself sympathizing with the story of a doomed king’s futile labor to push a boulder up a hill for eternity. Only, it wasn’t a rock that Vegeta struggled to heave upwards, but the weight of his own shortcomings. And none weighed so heavily as that which he had left behind, tucked snuggly in a bed, wrapped in a blanket they had temporarily shared and he had quickly abandoned.

Could Bulma still smell him on the sheets, on her skin? He could still smell her, a honeyed perfume that hung about him like the dust in the air. No, he was being ridiculously sentimental. No doubt she had showered by now and washed away the last traces of him. What a fitting metaphor that was for his life. Nothing more than a bad memory to be circulated down the drain.

How did she react when she woke up, only to find him gone and the dragon balls with him? It shouldn’t have mattered to him what she thought. He shouldn’t care, but for some fucking reason he did. Over and over Vegeta played out her possible reactions. Was she angry? Furious? Disappointed? 

Did she cry?

Did he want her to?

If she hadn’t cried, did it mean she didn’t care? And if she _had_ cried, did it mean he had walked out on something far more rare and valuable than that which he had stolen from her?

Fuck. Nothing had ever gone right for him. The first joke of his life had been his birth: everything after that only added to the punchline of his miserable existence. But in Bulma he had found his cup of life. Salvation. He had gone to her, a man dying in a desert of desolation, and he drank from her, quenching his thirst in the hopes that maybe she could be the answer to everything he hated about his life and about himself. 

So he believed. Which is why he did what any rational person would do. Tried to kill her.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

 _Nothing. You don’t need her_.

Right, no, of course he didn’t. He had never needed anyone before, he certainly didn’t need her. He didn’t need her stupid smiles that sliced him to his core when she aimed them his way. He didn’t need her insufferable conversations that aggravated him for how much they calmed him. He didn’t want her soft fingers grazing over his arm, brushing away his sins and melting through a lifetime of misery that had built up around him in layers of icy armor. Nor did he need his heart rate to accelerate every time she was around, his stomach clenching into knots, the desire to brush his fingers through her hair, or hear her purr his name so affectionately, maddening. And he certainly didn’t need her to look at him with her unnerving blue gaze, seeing the man inside him that no one else had bothered to look for, not even himself. 

No, what could he possibly need from someone like that?

“Shit…” Vegeta raised a hand to press against his brow, trying to squeeze away the onset of a migraine brought upon by his denial.

Somewhere off in the building, the floorboards creaked. 

He tensed, glancing towards the doorway. The building should have been deserted, he had made sure of that after breaking in.

But he wasn’t alone now.

Vegeta moved with cat-like stealth, the kind that took years from childhood to learn. He slipped the briefcase and his bag into a crumbling hole in the wall. Once those were secured, his fingers wrapped around Galick, thumbing the safety unlocked. Silently, Vegeta crept into the hallway, zeroing-in on the noises that led him to the intruder.

A quick sweep found a tall young man skulking about. He didn’t look homeless, but neither did he look like one of Frieza’s goons. Vegeta stayed hidden, glancing about, still listening carefully. The man appeared to be alone. Huh. Not smart on his part. Moving into an optimal position, Vegeta drew his weapon and pointed it squarely at the man’s broad back.

“Don’t move if you know what’s good for you,” he cautioned. The man froze obediently. “Turn around — slowly.” As the man complied, Vegeta got a good look at a face that was becoming all too familiar.

From under a mop of wild hair, the man from Bulma’s photographs looked cautiously at him and asked, “Vegeta, right?”

Vegeta ignored the question. _He_ would be the one asking the questions, and he had a pretty good idea of why Bulma’s friend was hunting him down. “You’re here for the dragon balls, aren’t you?” What else would it be? Vegeta didn’t need an to answer that question, for there was another one far more pressing. He was pretty certain he didn’t leave a trail and yet, here this guy was. “How did you find me?”

“We… have a way of tracking them,” the man answered vaguely. 

Fuck. Had Bulma hidden a GPS device in the goddamn briefcase? That clever bitch. Vegeta made a note to dump the case at his earliest convenience.

The man’s eyes focused on Galick. “Please, can you lower your gun? I don’t want a repeat of my brother’s death.”

Vegeta didn’t oblige. What was he, stupid? “Your brother?” he inquired, only vaguely interested.

“Raditz. You used to work with him, from what I got.”

The disconnected pieces fell into place, and Vegeta didn’t care for the picture they were forming. So this was Raditz’s brother? What was that name he had always used… Kakarot? Now mentioned, there was indeed a resemblance between this man and Raditz. Both were tall, athletic, had stupid hair, and that same dumb too-honest-for-their-own-good look about them. 

So _this guy_ was the reason Raditz had got himself killed, and in doing so unknowingly outed Bulma’s gang involvement? Wasn’t that fucking _quaint_. Or maybe the better word was ironic. Raditz had gone on and on ad nauseam about ‘family’, for some reason clinging to the concept like a drowning man would to a life raft. But instead of salvation, it had sunk him. Raditz was killed by the very brother he always longed for, the brother which Vegeta failed to be because Vegeta didn’t give a shit about anyone except himself. 

He wouldn’t shed a tear over Raditz’s stupid death, but Vegeta also wasn’t about to let the murder pass without recompense. For whatever it was worth, pathetic as it was, Raditz had been the closest thing to family Vegeta had left. 

Blood was paid with blood.

Something black and familiar slithered into his mind. It was an old instinct he hadn’t exercised in a long time. Fuck, it had been far too long since he enjoyed carrying out an execution. The sheer nastiness of the idea crept across his lips in the most Cheshire of grins. 

“So, you’re the infamous Kakarot, huh?” Vegeta asked, his amusement wry. “You can’t imagine how fucking tired I got of hearing Raditz blab about you—”

Kakarot had the audacity to cut him off. “Listen, Vegeta. I came here to talk. You don’t have to do this.” 

Oh great, here it went, the goddamn goody-two-shoes plea. Like he hadn’t heard this a thousand-fucking-times before. Christ, couldn’t these do-well types come up with something a little more original? He had higher expectations from one of Bulma’s acquaintances, especially one she was so intimately connected to if her photographs were anything to go by. That thought left a sour taste in his mouth that Vegeta refused to acknowledge as jealousy. He didn’t get jealous. Such emotions were for the weak, for those who couldn’t take what they wanted. He was NOT jealous that Kakarot knew Bulma better and longer than he did. He was just… pissed. Pissed that she had sent her fucking lapdog after him. As if this oaf of a man could even stop him. It was insulting. 

“We can team up,” Kakarot suggested. “Give us back the dragon balls, and we’ll get rid of Frieza together. Isn’t that what you really want?”

The annoying thing was, it was. But like hell Vegeta was going to accept anything Kakarot had to offer him. He was done taking orders and being offered scraps.

“…Y’know what, Kakarot. I’m tired of being told what to do by assholes like you all the time.” Damn, did it feel good to admit that. He lowered his gun to bask in the freedom of it, letting it wash over him. He would be what he always dreamed of being: his own man, free, alone, accountable to no one and nothing. He was over being a trained bulldog stuck on a leash. Sick to fucking death of it. Someone always thought they could own him. Even _she_ had tried to last night, attempting to pretty it up as a request, but he was wise to her games. He knew exactly what she had been after when she asked if he would join her gang and _help_. 

Well, he would be her pet no more than he would be Frieza’s.

He was done helping every other asshole but himself. And more than that, he yearned for retribution. All that stood in his way of getting it, was Bulma’s little errand boy. 

“So,” Vegeta said, looking up at Kakarot with cold eyes. “If you or anyone else want to get these precious dragon balls, you’ll have to pry them from my cold dead hands.”

Kakarot sighed, sounding truly regretful. “Well, can’t say I didn’t try.”

Vegeta snorted, re-training Galick’s sight as Kakarot shifted his weight and got into a fighting stance. Really? Kakarot was going to try and fight? Without a gun? Oh, this ought to be good. Apparently intelligence didn’t run rampant in Raditz’s family.

“Pfft! What’s a pussy like you gonna do?” Vegeta scoffed. “You’ve never been on the streets, I can tell.” It only took one look to know that Kakarot was no thug: he screamed ‘boy-scout’. Just because he hit the gym didn’t mean he could fight worth a shit.

Kakarot didn’t reply, fixing Vegeta with a serious look. He had guts, Vegeta would give him that; killing him would be a shame. Which was more than could be said for most of Vegeta’s victims. 

 “Don’t you worry now,” Vegeta reassured with a cruel smile. Inside a cold dark corner of his soul, he found an old part of himself and shook it out, like an old moth-bitten shirt, and slipped it on, reveling in the familiar comfort of it: violence. Sadism. Death. Thy name is Vegeta.

“I’ll make sure your friends - that little lying cunt included - will join you soon.”

If he couldn’t kill Bulma literally, then he would murder her figuratively. Putting an end to her friend would kill whatever she and Vegeta had shared between them, just as surely as killing her would have done. Either way, she would be dead to him. This was his farewell. 

Goodbye, Bulma.

He squeezed the trigger.

_BANG!_

Overconfident. It was a word that many had called him throughout his life. But Vegeta had good reason to be confident: he survived where others failed. He walked away from missions that were labelled impossible or suicidal with only a few scars to hint at horrors which most people couldn’t even fathom, let alone endure. Vegeta wasn’t just good, he was the best. He was the perfect killing machine. He hadn’t missed a shot since he was twelve. Which is why he knew with the same certainty that the sun would rise tomorrow that Kakarot was as good as dead.

His fingers tingled from Galick’s recoil. Gunpowder peppered the air. But there was no _oof_ , no blood, no collapsed body. Before Vegeta could comprehend that he had somehow _missed_ , a fist was flying towards his face. Try as he could, he couldn’t fucking dodge it.

His nose shattered with pain. Galick fell from his hand, skittering across the wood floor. Vegeta staggered backwards.

When he caught his balance and looked up, Kakarot was waiting before him, hands up in a defensive crouch. The hint of a smile played across the bastard’s lips.

Vegeta’s mind stopped working. Pain tore through him; something hot and wet ran from his nose down his face. Pain and blood, his old friends. He couldn’t believe it. Of all the things… of all the _fucking things_ that could have happened, Raditz’s little brother had just punched him in the face. How? _How_? Raditz couldn’t even tie his own fucking shoes, and Kakarot looked even less competent than his brother had been. How had he even beaten his own brother? Goddamn it, Raditz, you piece of _shit_. How could you let this moron get the best of you?

_The same way he just got the best of you?_

Inconceivable. Absurd. Absolutely unforgivable!

Vegeta felt a rage like no other, boiling over with every unfair shitty thing that had ever happened to him. He let it consume him. It blistered and distorted into a bright ball of fury, sparking like electricity, and blinding him to all but one target: Kakarot.

Vegeta saw red.

With a scream of primal rage, he lunged forwards. 

* * *

~xox~

 

The pain in his nose was nauseating. It made his head reel and his stomach roil, but Vegeta, in all of his nine years of wisdom, knew better than to complain. He channeled the pain deep within himself, feeding it to a tiny black fire that crackled: _not dead, not dead, not dead yet_.

“Is not bad,” his tutor told him in a thick eastern-European accent. Large, slender fingers eased a bandage over the boy’s busted nose. This man was known as Nothing. Vegeta thought it an odd choice of nickname. The word ‘nothing’ didn’t exactly instill respect or fear, or so he had thought. It wasn’t until much later that he caught on to the implied joke:

_What are you afraid of?_

Nothing.

 _I think I saw something in those shadows_.

It’s Nothing.

_What was that sound? Who’s there?_

Nothing.

It was a clever code-name for an assassin.

Nothing taught Vegeta a lot, far more than his previous tutors had. His education until now had consisted of little more than torture. Frieza saw to it that Vegeta was trained by the best, but apparently the ‘best’ was synonymous with the most ruthless, and Vegeta’s training had been minimal. His first instructor threw him and some other children into a pit for a week without food. On the seventh day they were given meat, enough to feed one. It was the sweetest tasting meal of Vegeta’s life; even his busted knuckles and the blood of the other boys on his hands couldn’t sully the taste.

Another teacher had handed Vegeta an AK and barely intelligible instructions on how to use it, right before dumping him in the middle of guerrilla warfare. Vegeta still didn’t know who or what he had been fighting for. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that he survived. And month by month, year by year, that’s what he clung to. He survived. He gathered up all the horrible things he had done to stay alive and pushed them down, down, down, deep into that place inside himself to fuel the burning black fire.

_Not dead, not dead, not dead yet._

But Nothing was different. Nothing actually talked to him and taught him skills. Nothing taught him how to efficiently kill a man, and how to keep one alive. Vegeta learned about stealth, about biding his time, and about how to use his weaknesses as his strengths, like his size.

“They will underestimate you, _mazulis_ ,” Nothing told him. “Let them.”

Nothing _listened_. Vegeta couldn’t remember the last time he could voice his opinion without getting beaten down for it. While the man didn’t care for idle chatter or complaining, Nothing would tolerate questions and answer them, as if the boys under his care were worthy of being heard. 

About a month into his tutelage with Nothing, an older boy — Nothing’s favorite — tried to pin the theft of rations on Vegeta. Vegeta was sure he was going to take the fall for it. But Nothing listened to them equally. When they had both given their sides of the story, Nothing pulled out his gun and shot his ‘favorite’ between the eyes.

“But…” Vegeta protested, disbelieving, as he watched the blood drain from the hole in the boy’s skull.

“I don’t like liars,” Nothing replied flatly. “I teach you now how to tell a liar.”

Vegeta learned. He also learned how to properly dispose of a body.

When he curled up under a thin blanket at nights, ignoring the cold of the stone beneath him, he liked to compare Nothing to his father. The years were eating at his memories. Where the gaps of his father’s image grew, Vegeta replaced them with Nothing. It wasn’t hard: both men were authoritative, serious, and didn’t tolerate excuses. Every time Vegeta closed his eyes and pictured his father, the image morphed a little more. The dark widow’s-peaked hair grew more salt and peppered. The thick beard became lighter, more stubbled. The tan skin paled. When he imagined his father speaking to him, it almost sounded at times as though he spoke with an accent.

Nothing taught him weapons and tactics and more. Vegeta learned how to survive with few resources, and how to depend upon himself. When he dislocated his shoulder during a sparing session, Nothing informed him how to fix it, and left Vegeta to carry out the instructions on his own. Vegeta did, biting back pain as he popped his shoulder back into place. It hurt like hell, and then it felt a million times better, just as Nothing had said it would. Panting from the aftershock, Vegeta looked to his mentor. The expression on Nothing’s face was solemn, but Vegeta liked to think he saw a hint of pride there.

Nothing was never tender, but also never needlessly cruel. He simply did what needed to be done. He was emotionless and efficient, and for a boy brimming with black emotions, Vegeta admired the man’s ability to so easily detach. He sought to emulate Nothing’s strength and calm mannerisms, hoping that in doing so it could take away the pain and hurt and anger that burned inside him incessantly.

“Is not broken,” Nothing assured, finished bandaging Vegeta’s nose. It was a rare treat to be tended to. Normally Nothing would have him fix the injury on his own; he must have been in a good mood. The man put his big, calloused hands on Vegeta’s cheeks, holding the boys face as he examined him. Their eyes locked. Black met blue steel. The tension in Vegeta melted away. Had his father ever held him like this? Had his father tended his wounds, or looked at him with such concern?

“What did you learn?” Nothing asked. He was always asking that, always wanting to make sure the children he trained were learning something. Everything was a lesson.

But Vegeta was feeling surly from losing his match. “Not to get punched in the nose.”

Nothing nodded, his lips twitching in almost a smile. “Is good advice. But you should have known that without letting it happen. Now, to bed.”

“Without dinner?” Vegeta asked, his stomach dropping.

“Yes,” Nothing confirmed, the truth delivered without emotion. “You lost. You don’t eat. This is rules. You know this.”

Vegeta did, but he was hoping being Nothing’s new ‘favorite’ might have granted him some leeway with the rules. Not that Nothing ever acknowledge having favorites, it was simply what the other children had started calling him. Vegeta bit back his protests, knowing they would fall on deaf ears. He lowered his eyes to sulk privately.

Nothing let him go, but not before brushing his fingers through Vegeta’s bangs. “Today’s hunger—”

“—Is tomorrow’s fuel,” Vegeta finished the mantra, his tone sullen. The phrase didn’t make his stomach growl any less as he laid down on the floor and tried to sleep.

It was pitch black when he awoke a few hours later. The other boys were still sleeping nearby, their soft slumbering breaths the only sounds echoing in the hideout. He felt a weight press on him, and a hand smothered his mouth. He panicked.

“Shh,” Nothing whispered in his ear. His breath smelt of vodka. “I bring food. Don’t make sound, or other children get jealous.”

Nothing let him go and Vegeta sat up. It was too dark to see much, but something was pressed into his hands. Vegeta brought it to his lips and bit into a cold, greasy sausage. His stomach rumbled with relief, and he quickly ate the food down, sucking the fat from his fingers afterwards. It wasn’t much, and it tasted a little sour, but he was appreciative nonetheless. 

“Is better now?” Nothing asked. The man stroked his hair affectionately.

Vegeta nodded, still sucking his fingers clean.

“Here. Now you do something for me.”

The hand in his hair tugged him closer. Vegeta moved obediently until his head was dragged downwards towards Nothing’s lap. He stiffened.

“This one you don’t eat,” Nothing said. “Just suck. Like candy.”

Vegeta froze. The chill of the room paled next to the bone-cold fear washing through him. His belly roiled, the sausage making him queasy. He didn’t move, didn’t dare to, his heart rabbiting wildly in his chest.

_No no no no no…_

Something hot and firm brushed against his cheek.

Vegeta sucked in a sharp breath and yanked away. As soon as fell against his bedroll he twisted around, trying to get to his feet. But his body wasn’t responding as it should. His legs felt ladened and sluggish. His balance was off. Unable to stand, he crawled, but even that was a struggle. 

Nothing was faster. He grabbed Vegeta, slamming the boy’s face into the floor. Pain flared, colored lights bursting in his vision. _No, no, no_ … The fight went out of him; his limbs turned to jelly. Blood and betrayal tasted thick on his tongue.

Something hot and wet stung at his eyes. 

Nothing kept him pinned, wrestling with his pants. In a moment of drug-induced clarity, Vegeta understood the weight of his insignificance. He was an idiot to think Nothing cared about him. No one ever had. He was a puppet, a tool, without freedom or authority. Any choice he had been given throughout his life had been an illusion, a carrot dangled on a string. His father, Frieza, Nothing, they all used him. Any affection he developed for them was never reciprocated, and only made his manipulation all the easier. 

You’re an idiot, Vegeta. 

It shouldn’t have been so soul shattering to realize. He had been comparing Nothing to his father for so long, finding all their similarities — inventing them when necessary — that Vegeta should have seen they shared one other important trait: both men were happy to use him for their own agenda.

 _What did you learn_?

To never trust again.

Whatever Nothing had laced his midnight snack with, it was muddling his thoughts. Vegeta’s mind swirled, like water rushing down a drain. He clutched his pillow in a miserable attempt to comfort himself and to dampen the throbbing pain of his nose and what was to come. 

The kiss of cold, sharp steel greeted his fingertips. It was the knife that Nothing had taught him to keep under his pillow.

 _They will underestimate you. Let them_.

Adrenalin spiked through him, but Vegeta bid his time. A bigger boy might not have been able to wriggle out of Nothing’s grip, but Vegeta was small and agile. He mustered the fragments of his awareness, fighting back the fog in his mind, and waited. 

“There, yes, good boy,” Nothing crooned, petting the seemingly docile boy beneath him. He leaned forward, his weight shifting off Vegeta’s legs.

Vegeta sprang, twisting around. It was dark, he was blinded, but his other senses were alive, pinpointing his target above. He drove the blade into Nothing’s chest. The steel sunk deeply between the man’s ribs, up to the hilt. Just the way Nothing had taught him.

A horrible, wet, gargling sound greeted his success. Nothing’s broad hands closed about Vegeta’s in an attempt to pry the dagger free. “ _Tu mazs… briesmonis…_ ” 

Vegeta wrenched the knife free only to strike again. And again, and again, attempting to silence the horrible noises Nothing made as he died.

Vegeta didn’t stop until his hands were too slick with blood, the handle slipping from his grip where it remained buried in his mentor’s chest. He hovered over the body, trembling with adrenalin and fighting back the urge to be sick. What have you done, what have you _done_?! His eyes stung. Something warm and wet dripped down his cheeks. Had he gotten blood on his face? He tried to wipe it away with a shaking hand, but he only smeared the blood from his hands onto his cheeks. Somehow, Nothing’s choking cries still echoed in the hideout.

Crying. Crying. Crying.

“Shut up!” Vegeta screamed. Only then did he realize that the broken noises were coming from him.

He sobbed and sobbed and sobbed until there was nothing left to give, draining himself of every last one of his feelings. He vowed never to feel anything again. When he was all but an empty husk, free of pain, he stood up. The other boys were awake, confused by the noises and Vegeta’s shouting. They asked questions. Who was crying? Where was Nothing? What was going on? Vegeta ignored them. He stumbled away, done with it all. He left behind not just his tutor’s corpse, but also his humanity.

_What did you learn?_

Nothing.

I am nothing.

* * *

~xox~

 

Goku’s first mistake was answering Bulma’s call. His CC mobile buzzed, vibrating across the table next to a plate of Chi Chi’s home-cooked Chinese that he had been picking at for the last half hour. He didn’t have much of an appetite; the call was a grateful distraction.

“Son!” Bulma said without preamble, speaking so quickly her words ran into one another. “I don’t have time to go into details, but my very good friend Vegeta took the dragon balls and I need your help to get them back. I’ll send you the co-ordinates. And Goku? _Please_ don’t hurt him too badly, okay? Please?”

It wasn’t like Bulma to ask nicely for anything, not when she could boss everyone around like a know-it-all older sister. Her being polite stunned Goku more than the theft of the dragon balls did.

He wasn’t a genius like she was, but he also wasn’t an idiot, even if he did play the card from time to time to his advantage. It was clear there was more to her story than Bulma was telling. After all, what kind of ‘very good friend’ would steal from her? And when did Bulma _ever_ ask him to go easy on someone? Normally, she would be screaming for blood. Damn, maybe Krillin had been right to get angsty over Bulma’s little crush-behind-enemy-lines… Well, it was a little too late for that now. What was done was done. Besides, Goku had spent his whole life trusting Bulma, he wasn’t about to start questioning her now.

Which lead to mistake number two: going to the dilapidated building her co-ordinates sent him to, thinking that he could resolve the dragon ball theft with minimal confrontation. Excessive violence was kind of a sore point for him lately. Only a couple days ago he was forced to kill his estranged brother. That was… difficult to process. Sure, it had been a desperate act of self defense. His so-called brother, Raditz, had quickly gone from charming long-lost sibling, to psychotic kidnapper in the space of a couple minutes and a few awkward exchanges.

“Come work with us, little bro. We’ll make up for lost time!”

“Uh, no thanks…”

Apparently Raditz didn’t take rejection well.

His brother had persisted, cajoled, and begged, but Goku continued to refuse. When Raditz saw Goku’s resolution, he knew he was arguing a lost cause. He pulled a gun on Gohan, so Goku didn’t pull his punches. 

The fight was messy, emotional, and bloody. In the end, Goku saved his son and friends, but the cost of the outcome was high. He didn’t wish to repeat the experience. He hoped his brother’s coworker would prove to be more reasonable.

Which brought Goku to his third and most damning mistake: severely underestimating Vegeta’s desperation and lack of self preservation. 

Reasoning with Vegeta had not gone well, although if Goku was being honest, he didn’t try as hard as he could have. He was, after all, far more concerned about the gun pointed at him. That became his priority. Goku hoped if he could disarm Vegeta and stay between him and the gun, the confrontation would be as good as finished and the dragon balls his. Most of these tough-guys fell to pieces the moment they were unarmed.

 _Boy_ was he wrong in this case.

The gunfire shattered the silence of the empty building, but Goku had seen the resolution in Vegeta’s eyes and moved before the bullet could graze him. He smacked his fist solidly into Vegeta’s face. It sent the man flying as the gun skidded safely away. Goku kept the weapon in his peripherals, expecting Vegeta to go for it the first chance he got.

Vegeta, however, appeared far more astonished about being hit than losing his weapon. He wiped blood from his nose, staring incredulously at the red that came away on his fingers. Vegeta’s eyes darkened at the sight, burning with a cold fire that chilled Goku to the bone when his murderous gaze turned on him. Like a cornered animal, Vegeta snarled. He launched with terrifying, reckless fury. And holy _cow_ did he move fast!

Years of training saved Goku, his body bracing for impact before he could think to respond. Vegeta slammed into him, crashing them both through the drywall to fall to the ground in the next room. Goku’s back hit the floor, knocking the air from his lungs. 

Vegeta didn’t pause. Relentless. He raised both arms high. Goku barely raised his own in time to protect himself as Vegeta brought his fists down onto his ribs. Goku gasped, but there was nothing he could do, trapped. Over and over again, Vegeta beat him with brutal sledgehammer blows.

Okay, Goku. You need to get out of this. Watch his movements. Count his rhythm.

Vegeta struck. _One._

Ouch! Boy, this guy isn’t messing around!

_Two._

Owie… D-don’t lose your cool. Look for an out.

_Three._

Crapthatreallyhurt! C’mon, focus. You’ve almost got him!

_Four._

CRACK!

Goku screamed as an unbearable pain exploded in his ribcage. Damn it, damn it, damn it, that was a broken rib or two or four. Chi Chi was going to kill him (if Vegeta didn’t first). Little else annoyed her more than her husband being too injured to work.

Vegeta hadn’t slowed down, not satisfied with a few broken ribs. Goku grit his teeth, waiting for the next blow. _Five_. It hurt worse than before, but this time he was prepared.

He had caught onto Vegeta’s timing. 

In the half-second of time between landing another blow, Goku launched up and struck. Vegeta snarled, reeling back and clutching his right eye. It gave Goku the chance to break free. They both got to their feet, but the reprieve was short lived. 

Vegeta came at him with even more vehemence. He was ferocious. Inhuman. He didn’t waste effort on dodging or blocking, letting Goku’s punches strike as he _kept coming_ , landing devastating attacks that Goku was struggling to handle. 

Not since fighting the Red Ribbon gang had Goku felt so in danger. And so alive.

Dang. Maybe Chi Chi was right about him being an adrenalin junkie.

…Okay, _never_ tell Chi Chi she was right about him being an adrenalin junkie. 

If he lived to tell her anything again.

A vicious knee to the stomach had Goku doubling over. The pain from his ribs was debilitating. With a wild, lucky punch, he managed to shove Vegeta back, giving himself a few seconds of respite. Air was painful to come by, his breathing labored and wheezing.

It was becoming clear that Vegeta wasn’t just trying to beat him. The guy was trying to kill him. And he was going to succeed at this rate.

Well, wasn’t this swell. He and Bulma were so worried about not hurting Vegeta that neither one of them stopped to think if Vegeta had the same intentions. In trying to spare the man’s life, Goku had forgotten about his own. 

So this is how I go out, huh?

Goku couldn’t help finding it a little bit funny. And exhausted, resigned laugh bubbled out of him.

He couldn’t rely on anyone coming to his rescue. Bulma and the others wouldn’t arrive for some time yet, and even when they did, they wouldn’t be much help. Vegeta was just too strong.

Goku was going to die.

His only regret was that he hadn’t finished eating his wife’s cooking that morning. _Sorry Chi Chi. Had I known it was going to be my last meal, I would have appreciated it more_.

Well, since there was nothing else left for him to lose, there was no point holding back.

_Gohan, Chi Chi. My friends. Lend me your strength. I’m gonna need it._

* * *

~xox~

 

Kakarot’s laughter grated against Vegeta’s nerves like nails on a chalkboard. It snapped him out of the berserk state which Kakarot’s punch-to-the-nose had sent him into. What the _fuck_ was there to laugh about? It was offensive. Infuriating. The man was beaten to hell: bruised and bloody, with several broken bones. What the hell was so funny about _that_?

He must have hit Kakarot’s head harder than he realized.

It wasn’t the only thing vexing him though. Though Vegeta would rather die than admit it, Kakarot’s last punch had hurt him. A lot. The idiot had, by pure fucking luck, struck his not-quite-healed gunshot wound. Vegeta struggled not to grimace lest he give away his weakness. Fuck, this fight was beyond aggravating. Lucky shot or not, Kakarot was not as inept in combat as his brother had been. He was well trained. Some form for kung fu if Vegeta had to guess, though he preferred krav maga himself. It had been careless not to take Kakarot more seriously, and now he was paying the price. Every one of Kakarot’s punches stung, and the pain in his side grew worrisomely with each passing second. Under different circumstances Vegeta might have appreciated the challenge Kakarot offered, but he wasn’t here to test himself. Certainly not against this guy when there were bigger fish in the pond. Was it really so much to ask for this giant clown-of-a-man to die so that he could enact his revenge against Frieza? 

Apparently so, because Kakarot wasn’t going down.

How _dare_ he. Did he not know his fucking place in the food chain? Kakarot was goddamn fish-chum to Vegeta’s man-eating shark. Yet the idiot was _chuckling_ about his situation. It was ridiculous, _he_ was ridiculous. And Vegeta was _pissed_. It shouldn’t be this fucking hard to kill someone so ingenuous.

How far had Vegeta fallen that he couldn’t end one miserable man?

Goddamn it. He was _not_ going to be stopped here, not when he was so close to getting revenge. He had endured too much, lost too much. He was _not_ going to let her stop him.

_Her?_

…No, oh no. We are _not_ falling down that rabbit hole again. Focus.

Vegeta scowled, gathering his mental fortitude. No more messing around. It was time to end this.

Exhaling, and letting any abiding thoughts of Bulma dissipate, Vegeta crouched into a fighting stance. Kakarot stopped laughing and did the same.

They squared off.

Kakarot attacked first, throwing a fast punch. Vegeta was ready this time. Tilting his head to the side, he let Kakarot’s arm drift harmlessly past. He balled his fist and struck, connecting with Kakarot’s face.

They fought, trading a multitude of blows and blocks. Neither could gain the upper hand. They were a mess, both bloody and injured and fighting for their very survival. Adrenalin seared through Vegeta, as powerful as a sand storm. It swept over him, scorching him with its intensity, hurtling him forwards with the deafening roar: attack, attack, attack! Every chance he got, he targeted Kakarot’s ribs with brutal tenacity.

But he wasn’t the only one fighting more seriously. Kakarot was holding his own. Cute. Like this guy thought he could compare when Vegeta was being serious—

“Urgk!”

Vegeta staggered back, clutching his belly after Kakarot’s fist had sunk into his gut. Hard. Vegeta struggled to choke in air through the crippling pain. Saliva drooled from his mouth. A glance down revealed blood, soaking through his hoodie. The goddamn gunshot wound had re-opened. Fuck. _Fuck_. He raised his eyes, glaring at Kakarot with new-found loathing.

Kakarot saw the blood too. Instead of pressing his advantage, the great idiot lowered his arms. “Where are the dragon balls, Vegeta?”

Kakarot thought he had won. The fuck? How dare he lower his guard and assume the fight was somehow over. Vegeta took a step forward, intending to teach the bastard a lesson, but to his utter humiliation his leg buckled, giving out. He fell to his knee, one hand still clutching his side. No, no… This wasn’t happening. No! Fucking _goddamn it_. 

“You haven’t beaten me yet. This is nothing,” he growled peevishly.

Kakarot’s look was borderline pitying. “I believe you,” he said as he advanced, stopping just before Vegeta. “But it doesn’t have to be this way, Vegeta.”

“Fuck you!”

Kakarot sighted before grabbing Vegeta by the front of his hoodie and hoisting him up. Their eyes locked: Vegeta’s contemptuous, Kakarot’s strikingly hard. For the first time since meeting, Vegeta got a good look at the fighter behind the fool. In the depths of Kakarot’s eyes, he saw something familiar. It was the same image reflected back at him from his mirror: the eyes of a man capable of taking another’s life. Oh shit… Vegeta had severely underestimated his enemy.

Kakarot sucker-punched him in the gut again and let him go. Vegeta gagged, doubling-over, and stumbled to the other side of the room to put distance between them. Fuck, it hurt. His wound was bleeding worse than ever. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck… At this rate, he was going to lose not just the fight, but his consciousness. Which meant he could kiss his chance of taking down Frieza goodbye, and that was totally un-fucking-acceptable.

Vegeta grit his teeth, forcing his pain back down, letting it burn away in the black fire inside himself. _Not dead yet_. He looked up at his opponent… Only Kakarot wasn’t there. That mother fucking _cunt_. Where had he slipped off to? Warily, burning with new indignation, Vegeta listened for clues. A subtle creak in the floorboards indicated that Kakarot was nearby: in the other room.

The same room where he had dropped Galick. That sneaky _sonovabitch_.

* * *

~xox~

 

Goku was hurting, fiercely. Crap, this was bad. Vegeta had really done a number on him. At this rate he was going to lose, his body unable to hold up. Vegeta was unstoppable, a tank of endless rage. It was as impressive as it was terrifying. The moment Vegeta had looked away to assess his injury, Goku ducked out of the room, giving himself time to re-evaluate his game plan and find some advantage. Any advantage. 

That’s when Goku saw the gun. He picked it up, his ribs protesting the movement. Even if he didn’t intend on using the weapon, he knew Vegeta had no such compulsions. Better he have it than Vegeta.

Goku leaned against the nearest wall, trying to catch his breath. Everything hurt. This definitely ranked at the top of the worst beatings he had ever received, right next to the one his brother had delivered to him just a few days past. Boy, this really wasn’t a good week. Closing his eyes, Goku calmed his breathing and extended his hearing, listening for Vegeta.

Something moved in the doorway. Goku turned, pointing the gun, too late seeing the rubble for what it was: a distraction.

A fist came flying through the wall by his face. Vegeta grabbed his hair, wrenching his head back and cracking his skull into the wall, three brutal times. Black spots filled Goku’s vision. He felt his grip on both reality, and the gun, slip. His knees crumpled, and the world went dark.

* * *

~xox~

 

Vegeta moved into the next room, shaking plaster from his swollen knuckles. Kakarot was slumped on the floor. Finally — _finally_ — he had gotten the upper hand over the giant asshole. Even so, said asshole wasn’t totally out for the count. Like a drunk fighting off inebriation, Kakarot’s head rolled sluggishly, no doubt battling an extreme case of the spins. Galick lay on the floor by his limp fingers. Vegeta stepped over and took back his gun. It would be so easy to shoot him now… Too easy. Satisfying, but not nearly as fun as putting his fist through the guy’s face a few more times would be. And there was a chance that Kakarot knew how to use the dragon balls. That was worth learning. 

With a final glance at his bested opponent, Vegeta trekked back to where he had stashed his things. Every step was grueling, his body well worked over, but he sucked up the pain and made his way to the first room he had been in. There he dug out the suitcase and his duffle bag from the hole in the wall, and shoved the tiny orange balls from the briefcase into his pocket. These shitty things had better be worth all this godforsaken aggravation. With his bag in tow, Vegeta limped back to where his uninvited guest was awaiting.

Kakarot wasn’t where he had left him, but he hadn’t crawled far, miserably attempting to lever himself up by the window ledge.

Vegeta dropped his bag and snorted with amusement, watching the man struggle. A smile curled his lips. He approached, slowly drinking in the sight of Kakarot’s pitiful efforts, like a cat watching a lame mouse. Vegeta raised his foot—

—and stomped down.

“AAAAARRRRGHHhhhhh….!”

Kakarot’s scream, along with the sickening crunch of bone, flooded Vegeta with a feeling far too long absent in his life: control. Holy shit did it feel good to be on top again. A chuckle of malicious pleasure escaped him, victory as potent as any liquor. “Oops. Looks like I’ve broken your leg, Kakarot. But hey, you won’t be needing to walk any time soon, will you? Not once I’m done with you.” He pulled out Galick and thumbed over the safety. Nothing like a bit of torture and intimidation to loosen up a man’s tongue.

Kakarot glared up with dark, accusatory eyes. He didn’t look good, his face pale, sweat trickling down his temples. “Sh-she called you… a good friend…”

Vegeta felt the smile on his face die, along with something tender that fluttered inside him, like paper burning into ash. “There’s nothing good about me,” he said as he aimed Galick between Kakarot’s eyes. Fuck interrogation. He would figure out the dragon balls on his own.

Kakarot’s left foot lashed out. Vegeta swore, falling hard onto his back as his legs were pulled out from under him. How many goddamn lives did this man have?! Swearing in every language known to him, Vegeta tried to shoot from his prone position. But Kakarot lunged forwards, smothering Vegeta’s hands with his own before he could find the trigger. Their fingers locked about the weapon, struggling for control.

“Y-you think you can best _me_?” Vegeta snarled, shaking with the effort to overpower Kakarot.

“Ha! Try me, Vegeta!” Kakarot goaded back with a lop-sided grin.

The fucking _nerve_ of this man!

They pulled, trembling and grunting with the effort to overthrow the other. Slowly, ever so slowly, the gun started to dip away from him. Vegeta was _losing_.

Panic. Despair. Humiliation. They were old friends he thought long buried, yet here they were, raising their ugly heads and sinking their undead claws into him. No no no, this wasn’t right, this wasn’t fucking happening. This was _not happening_. He would not lose, not here, not now, not to this man. Vegeta refused to accept it. What had his life been for, what had all his suffering and years of training be for, if not to be the strongest and the best? An indescribable wrath flashed through him. His fury swelled and distended, as horrific and disfigured as an engorged corpse. His eyes locked with Kakarot’s, so close that he could see his own monstrous image reflected back. He started pulling Galick back. He was going to pull the trigger, and he was going to enjoy watching Kakarot’s smug, stupid face explode in a big bang of red.

But Kakarot had other ideas. He smashed his head into Vegeta’s. Vegeta swore and rocked backwards, Galick slipping from his grip.

Fuck this. Fuck EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS. Vegeta might have lost his gun, but at least _he_ had two working legs. He lurched to his feet. His body protested, but he was beyond caring. It was time to end this charade of a fight. With a brutal surge of strength, before Kakarot could think of shooting him, Vegeta grabbed fistfuls of the man’s shirt and hefted him into the air. He smashed Kakarot through the window. Glass shattered, tinkling to the alleyway one story below. He dangled Kakarot outside, a manic smile plastered to his face. It wouldn’t be a fatal fall, but certainly a painful one, especially for a man already half beaten to death.

“Let me help you downstairs.”

“Vegeta, wait, it’s not too late to team up,” Kakarot pleaded.

Vegeta sneered. Not this shit again. “Really?” he drawled.

“Think about it! Imagine what we could accomplish if we worked together. That’s what Bulma—”

Her name was the last hit he was willing to endure. Vegeta let go. Kakarot didn’t fall. What the…? The man was clinging to his wrists. The sudden shift of weight caused Vegeta to lean precariously out of the window. Cursing, he tried to shake Kakarot loose.

FWACK.

Something hard and suspiciously gun-shaped smacked him in the face. Sonova _bitch_! Did that asshole just _throw Galick at his head_? Vegeta had no time to check because he was losing his balance. Desperately, he tried to brace his legs, but Kakarot’s weight pulled him forwards. There was nothing he could do. 

They fell—

—and landed hard on the damp ground below. 

Fucking ow…

For a few dazed seconds, Vegeta lay still, watching as snowflakes drifted down around him. Delicate things, they alighted on the surface of the wet alley floor, suspended for a brief moment before the dirty water saturated them, and they melted, gone. Cold seeped into his bones. And pain. Everything was pain. His side worst of all, throbbing as it bled. Fuck… didn’t all this feel a little familiar, bleeding out on the ground of an alleyway he had fallen into?

Well, he didn’t then, he sure as fuck wasn’t about to die now. At least, not like this, not on his belly in a street next to this joke of a fighter. Why the fuck was he even wasting his time with this idiot? He had bigger foes to fell.

Kakarot was sprawled right beside him. The man was still breathing, though it sounded wet and ragged. Vegeta’s arms buckled as he pushed up on his hands, wincing as broken glass cut into his knees. He curled his fingers in the slush, fighting back a wave of nausea and lightheadedness.

“Frieza… he’ll kill you…” Kakarot grunted, struggling to also sit up. 

“Tch.” He killed me a long time ago. 

The look Kakarot gave him was full of pity. Vegeta felt his anger explode. He wobbled to his feet, looming over his opponent. 

“Don’t fucking look at me like that,” he snarled. “The moment after I kill him, I’ll be coming back for you, and every one of your pathetic friends.”

“Vegeta, wait—” 

Kakarot tried standing on his good leg, but Vegeta was done wasting time with him and this sham of a fight. He threw a fistful of gritty snow. Kakarot turned to shield his eyes. Vegeta used the distraction to deliver one last, swift kick in the ribs, shoving Kakarot back into the wall where the man slid to the ground with a pained cry. 

Vegeta fled. A tactical retreat. Time was running out. He didn’t have the luxury of killing everyone he wanted to right now. His own life was bleeding out between his fingers.

“That… fucking clown… I’m not dying like this!” 

Kakarot had wasted too much of his time and energy. And fuck, his gear! Goddamnit it, it was still sitting up in the building, along with his gun, but it was too risky to try and retrieve them. Fuck! This was… far from the ideal attack he had envisioned. In fact, it was a fucking disaster. But he couldn’t afford to recuperate. There was nowhere he could go, no one to help patch him up or resupply him. No one left on his side. Not that anyone ever had been; they had all just been pretending, playing the roles assigned to them until it was no longer convenient to do so.

Even her.

To hell with them, he didn’t need them. He had done everything in his life by himself, and that’s how he intended on going out. All he needed was one good shot, one good fucking chance to shove the dragon balls in his former employer’s face and gloat as he _crushed them_ , or better yet, made the bastard choke on them. Yes, maybe that’s what he would do. Then he could die in peace. 

Vegeta supported himself on the alley walls as he staggered through the labyrinth of back streets towards his target. Deep within, the black fire burned hotly: _not dead, not dead, not dead yet._  

“I’m coming, Frieza…”

* * *

~~ox0xo~~

* * *

 

 **AN:** First scene **beta-read** by the amazing **Artephile** / **Marcella-Duchamp.**

 

This chapter was so hard to write, for many, many reasons.

 

DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is **stupidoomdoodle’s** idea. I’m just playing in their sandboxes, very graciously by Dooms too I might add. **Stupidoomdoodles** and **LadyVegeets** can be found on **twitter** , **tumblr**. Girl Next Door comic can also be found on **smackjeeves**. Read it, love it, comment on it, be haunted by it, like I am.

 

P.S. I’m sorry if I butchered your language, Latvia. >_< I tried really hard, honestly I did.

 

**~Lady Vegeets**


	12. GND - (NEWEST CHAPTER) 11 Fire and Ice

**_NB:_ ** _Based on_ **_chapter 3,_ ** _occurring after_ **_‘The World Is Gonna Burn’,_ ** _of the_ **_“Girl Next Door”_ ** _comic by_ **_stupidoomdoodles,_ ** _which can be found on_ **_smackjeeves_ ** _. This is all mostly Dooms’ headcanon, I’ve just come in to reverently flesh it out a little. ;)_

  
****

**Girl Next Door**

**11 - Fire and Ice**

 

Wisps of ash danced in the air. Drifting like snow. But the boy’s eyes looked past them to the hellscape beyond.

A roaring inferno consumed Vegeta’s home. Thick tendrils of flame licked up the sides of the mansion, the bright glow throwing twisted shadows across the cobblestone street. Wood cracked, splintered, and blackened, spitting out embers and ash into the evening air. The heat was incredible; so hot his eyes watered.

 _He_ had done this. 

“Don’t leave the house, son.”

His father was a busy man. Running a successful gang would do that to a person. It was rare for Vegeta to get much time with his parents, so whenever he had the chance he soaked up his father’s words and imprinted them deep into his memory. Tales of his future as head of the Royals and liberator against the Colds were his favorite. They were the most entertaining, his father the most passionate in their telling. Vegeta would fall asleep at night, head filled with visions of his great destiny and the proud beaming smile of his father.

Which is why the next time Frieza came for a ‘house call’, Vegeta wanted a look at the man he would one day take down. 

He was supposed to stay in his room. Normally Nappa would stand guard, but the big lug was out running an errand. In all the chaos of Frieza’s impending visit, no one had thought to replace him. This suited Vegeta just fine and made sneaking out all the easier. He was small and knew how to move quietly thanks to Raditz. Bend the knees. Shift your weight evenly. Roll your feet. Cautiously, he snuck into the hallway next to the sunroom, pressing up to the wall where the vent would allow him to eavesdrop.

“—done well again, I see. You’ve very nearly tripled your quota. Not bad for a self-proclaimed _king_.” The voice was unfamiliar, but it dripped with so much condescension that it could only belong to Frieza. No one else could get away with speaking to his father like that. His little fists balled up with the indignity of it.

“Perhaps now you’ll feel more assured of our alliance,” his father replied with restrained civility.

“Alliance? My dear Vegeta, do you actually consider yourself equal to me?”

“But surely—”

“Ah! Before you bore us all to death, allow me to explain. _Allies don’t keep secrets_.”

There was a strained silence. Vegeta felt Frieza’s words slice through like a cold wind. 

His father struggled to remain calm. “Sir… If you’re suggesting that we’re holding back our dues, I can assure you—”

“No no,” Frieza cut him off. “It’s not that. If you were stealing from me, you’d be dead already. I was referring to the matter of your heir.”

Him?

“I… but…?” 

“Come come, now. Are you still playing dumb? That’s _disappointing_. Honestly, I’ll grant you this, you managed to keep your little secret for how many years? The child is what, five, six? I’m impressed. Still, you didn’t think you could hide him here forever, did you? He’ll be needing an education. It just so happens, I have a rather passionate interest in sculpting young minds.”

“…What is it that you want?”

Frieza chuckled. “Did I not make it obvious? I want the boy.”

Vegeta’s breathing grew ragged, short and panicky. Why him?

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am, Vegeta. Deadly. The boy for your alliance. Think of it like an insurance policy. This way, we can both sleep quite soundly at night knowing you won’t be tempted to do anything really _stupid_.”

Vegeta stared at the wall, but it might as well have not been there. He could picture his father now, tall and proud and strong, coming up with the best way to tell Frieza where to shove his ‘deal’. After all, it went against everything his father had told him of his future. He was going to take Frieza down, not join him.

“…When?”

His mother started crying.

 _No_ … He hadn’t heard correctly. Something was wrong with the vent. That was it. He had just misheard.

“I imagine you can have him packed and ready by the end of the—”

He ran. He ran and ran away from the lying vent, all the way to the other end of the house and through kitchen to where the back exit was. His little fingers grabbed the brass door-handle, and hesitated. One little twist and he would be outside. 

 _Never leave the house_. His father’s one irrefutable law. The weight of it bore down on him, pressing him down down down until he couldn’t breathe, like that time Raditz had smothered him with a pillow because he thought it was amusing.

“Well? Are you gonna do it or what?”

Speak of the devil. Vegeta’s burning eyes slid to the side to glare hatefully at the older boy sitting at the kitchen counter. Raditz was watching him with the same interest he did flies whose wings he had picked off. He took Vegeta in with mischievous curiosity, shoving half a sandwich into his mouth (an impressive and disgusting feat). 

“Shouldn’t you be running ‘errands’?” Vegeta snapped back.

Raditz grinned around his half-masticated meal. “Nah. Got no orders. Everyone’s too worried about _him_.”

Frieza. Of course. Just hearing the man’s name made Vegeta’s stomach bottom out. 

“Your old man’ll be pissed if he finds out you’re trying to leave,” Raditz warned. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

Vegeta didn’t understand what a dead cat had to do with anything, but he guessed that Raditz was asking if he was sure about leaving.

He was. Screw his father’s rule. What had being obedient gotten him, except a one-way ticket to the enemy? His father hadn’t even _tried_ to negotiate out of the deal. _Please Father, I don’t want to leave you_. But if he had to, at least it would be on his terms. Pursing his lips with determination, Vegeta started to turn the handle.

“Where will you go?” Raditz interrupted.

Uh, well… He didn’t know. How could he? But what did it matter? He just needed to get out. Away. Far, far away from here until the ache of being traded by his own father wouldn’t sting as much. Wracking his mind, he landed on a solution. “To pick pockets.” Raditz had been teaching him how, at least until Vegeta got too good and the predictability grew boring.

“I asked you _where_ you’d go, not what you’d do, genius.”

The nerve of Raditz; he was only being so cavalier because Nappa wasn’t around to smack him upside the head. Vegeta glowered at the back of the door, frowning fiercely to fight back a wave of upsetting emotions. Of course he didn’t know where he was going. He had never been outside before, a fact that both boys were painfully aware of. 

His gusto fizzling out, Vegeta asked, “Are you going to rat on me?” Was everyone going to stab him in the back today?

Raditz sighed loudly and dropped his half-eaten sandwich on his plate before getting up. “C’mon. I lost my appetite anyways. Stinks of Cold in here.”

~xox~

* * *

 

Two enormous scoops of ice cream slowly dripped down his fingers, but Vegeta was too busy enjoying the treat to care about the mess. It was his reward for his first successful job at pick-pocketing. Who knew you could buy things with the money you stole? 

He and Raditz sat on the curb eating ice cream, watching the sun sink below the city skyline. It had been a good afternoon. Amazingly enough, given that Raditz was usually a huge asshole back home. But here on the streets it was them vs the world. A novel experience, having someone at his back. They picked pockets and stole from the convenience store and threw rocks at passing cars before the crash of success sent them dashing away, careening into an alley to collapse, wheezing and laughing and clutching their sides that burned with sweet freedom. Raditz taught him a lot of new things about the outside world he had never seen. Vegeta soaked it all up like a sponge. Who knew when he could do something like this again?

“We’ll have to go back, you know,” Raditz said, casting him a glance as he finished his ice cream.

Vegeta said nothing. He knew. A pebble weighed heavily in his gut, turning and rolling and souring the taste of his treat. Back home? It wouldn’t be home for much longer. His skin flushed hot and cold.

“Here.” He shoved the ice cream at Raditz. “It’s too sweet.” He felt sick to his stomach, but not from the food.

When Raditz took the ice cream, Vegeta stood, dusting himself off.

“Where’re you goin’?”

He narrowed his eyes at the pedestrians. “One more mark.” He wasn’t ready to face his father just yet. Raditz didn’t argue, so Vegeta slunk off down the street, side-eyeing the crowd to find an easy mark.

“YOU!”

Suddenly the ground dropped away. Vegeta gasped, lifted into the air by the back of his shirt.

“What the HELL do you think you are doing?” Nappa bellowed at him, drawing the attention of passersby. 

 _Nappa?_ Frantic, Vegeta tried to wrestle his way out of the huge man’s grip. A desperate glance found that Raditz was gone, no doubt having seen the commotion and fled. Traitor. 

Nappa gave him a hard shake. “Do you have any idea how upset your parents are?!”

“UNHAND ME, YOU GREAT APE!” Vegeta demanded shrilly, his little legs kicking in the air. Nappa did just that. Vegeta fell hard on his ass. “Ah! How… how dare you?”

“How dare _you_!” Nappa roared back, his face red, little flecks of spittle collecting in the corner of his mouth. “I am not a goddamn Nanny, you little shit. Get up. We’re going home. Now.”

The walk back was miserable. Vegeta dragged his feet, shoes scuffing the sidewalk. Every step added weight to the pebble in his gut until he thought he might need to throw up. Nappa was oblivious to his suffering, too livid to care, furiously texting messages to his father (who hadn’t answered the phone when called) as the streetlights started flickering on.

“I fucking swear, kid, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

Vegeta kicked an empty can down the street. “Well you won’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

 _Because after today, I’ll never see you or my family again_. Something stuck in his throat. He tried to swallow it down and keep his lip from quivering. “…Dad sold me.”

Nappa stopped texting and looked sideways at him. He didn’t have to ask to whom. With a sigh, he pocketed his phone. “I don’t know anything about that, but… if that’s what the King decided, then it must be for the best.”

Indignation surged through Vegeta like steam screaming out of a kettle. His fists balled at his sides. “Better for who?” he spat, because it sure as hell wasn’t better for him. Everything he knew was a big fat lie. His eyes stung. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he wiped the back of his fist over his face.

“What the fuck?”

Vegeta looked and saw Nappa staring up. He followed the man’s gaze to where a giant plume of black smoke — glowing with orange light — twisted up into the twilight sky. “What’s that?” he asked.

A line of worry creased the balding man’s head. “…Something’s on fire.”

A wail sounded behind them. They jumped and watched as a fire engine shot past. An uneasiness crept over Vegeta, engorging the pebble in his stomach.

Nappa started running. “C’mon.”

Vegeta could barely keep up on shorter legs. Another fire truck overtook them, blaring its horrible urgent siren. Nappa was a full block ahead now, having broken out into a sprint. Vegeta strove to keep up, gasping for air that wouldn’t come, panic the only thing driving him forward.

He turned a corner and stumbled into chaos. Several large emergency vehicles blocked the road as men in uniforms battled both the gathering crowd and the terrible fire that claimed the mansion.

His mansion. Home.

Two police officers tried to restrain Nappa as he screamed for his boss over and over. The fire was enormous, smoke billowing into the sky like a black dragon. It was both horrible and magnetic to watch. Like a dream. Vegeta had just been eating ice cream a moment ago. This had to be a dream.

 No one paid him any attention. Pulled by an invisible force, he drifted through the barricades and headed to the back of the house. He didn’t feel his feet touch the cobblestones or his knees bend. His family must be gathered in the courtyard. 

But no one was there, the back of the house burning as much as the front. It didn’t make sense. He had been here just a few hours ago. How did this happen? Where was everyone?

The back door was open. Had he forgotten to shut it when he left? He couldn’t remember.

_Don’t leave the house, son._

He had done this. 

The fire swallowed his home. More and more it was engulfed with every passing second until something _cracked_ — and the roof collapsed in on itself.

“Noooo!!” Nappa’s wail reached him from the barricade. The big man screamed. And screamed, and screamed, the sound soon divulging into great heaving sobs. It made Vegeta’s chest tighten in fear to hear a grown man weep like that. Embers burst from the wreckage like macabre fireworks.

“What a shame…” A serpentine voice floated from behind as if the wind itself spoke. But the clip of Italian leather on cobblestone wasn’t imagined. Vegeta barely noticed, too engrossed by the flames, hypnotized by their wild frantic dancing and what they hid beneath.

Iron fingers gripped his shoulder, squeezing him tightly. “But don’t worry, Little Prince,” Frieza whispered sweetly in his ear. “The Cold family will be taking care of you from now on.”

_No…_

He knew. His world and everyone in it had gone up in smoke.

He had done this. He broke the rule. He had killed them.

They were gone.

_Why couldn’t I die too?_

Ash rained down, glowing fireflies that singed his skin. Despite the heat, Vegeta was only ice inside.

 

~xox~

* * *

 

Snowflakes fell, as light and ethereal as a dream. Or a memory.

 _Don’t worry, Little Prince_ …

Vegeta ached from his fall and fight with Kakarot. Worse, the bleeding wound in his side was starting to feel as cold as the weather. Not a good fucking sign. He curled his fingers against the wall, summoning the strength to push on with sheer force of will alone.

The Cold headquarters towered ahead.

“ _You_ don’t worry, Frieza,” he growled, his words fogging the air. “I’m not going out without a fight.”

Despite the cold, Vegeta burned with black fire. And he would bring them all burning down with him.

 

 

~~ox0xo~~

* * *

 

 

 **AN:** Blessed to have the critical eyes of  **MarcellaDuchamp** beta-read this  <3\. Thanks also to Stupidoomdoodles for helping me make you, er, Nappa cry.

DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is **stupidoomdoodle’s** idea. I’m just playing in their sandboxes, very graciously by Dooms too I might add. **Stupidoomdoodles** can be found on twitter, as can I, **LadyVegeets,** (and on tumblr). Girl Next Door comic can be found on [smackjeeves](http://www.smackjeeves.com/comicprofile.php?id=161949). Read her comic, love it, comment on it, be haunted by it, like I am.

 

**~Lady Vegeets**


	13. GND - (EPILOGUE) 99? Ink (ficlet)

**_NB:_ ** _Based on the_ **_“Girl Next Door”_ ** _(aka FriendsAU) comic by_ **_stupidoomdoodles._ ** _Idea of Bulma drawing over Vegeta by_ **_Nofcksgiven._ ** _;)_

 

 

**This story was initially written out of order. Therefore, the following two chapters happen AFTER the events of GND. Read no further if you want to follow the story chronologically.**

 

**.**

**..**

**...**

 

**Girl Next Door**

**\- 99?- (pre-epilogue?)**

**Ink**

 

They lay curled up on the bed, tangled together along with the sheets, sweaty and panting and utterly spent. Vegeta felt her squeeze his hand, her fingers pushed through his, and in a moment of rare affection he squeezed back. He pulled her soft, lithe form against him, spooning her to his front, wrapping himself up in her for as long as he could, eeking out the pleasure of the morning. She happily melded into him, always complaint in _that_ regard if not in others. It made his heart skip a beat, and his groin ached to fill her again, to claim what she so willingly offered.

But for now he was satisfied just to hold her, the edges of a post-coital sleep creeping up on the fringes of his consciousness, the soft light of morning warming his limbs and helping him drift off…

He was disturbed by her getting up. He frowned, unhappy that she was leaving when he was so comfortable, but his displeasure lasted for only a moment because trying to control Bulma was like trying to cling to gas, she simply couldn’t be contained, flying about of her own free will, needing only a spark before BOOM, instant devastation. So he let her go.

She left, and he closed his eyes but continued to track the soft pat of her feet as she moved about the apartment. She returned a few moments later, and he grunted in irritation as she straddled the backs of his thighs, crushing him into the mattress. Only she could get away with such a gesture.

He smelt something astringent and then a very fine, delicate touch on his shoulder blade. What the hell was she up to now?

“What. Are you doing?” he asked, trying to sound threatening but with his face smooshed into the mattress and still being half asleep, his words came out more exasperated than anything.

“This is bugging me,” she said. The gentle, concentrated touch continued to trail over his shoulder, moving back and forth with light strokes. The furrow on his brow deepened, his fingers curling in the sheets as the alcoholic smell grew stronger. “Bulma?”

“Mmm?”

“… Are you _drawing_ on me?”

“…Yes?”

Vegeta sighed, not nearly awake enough for this. He pinched the bridge of his nose and then finally forced one eye open to glare up at her. “I’m going to regret asking this, but, _why_?”

“I don’t like your tattoo,” she said, the faintest hint of a frown marring her perfect face, her mouth set with determination as she continued to draw on him in marker. “You don’t belong to them any more.”

“Does it matter?” he asked.

Her frown deepened. “Yes.”

She wouldn’t look at him, focused on her drawing but he was starting to grow astute as to when she purposefully avoided his gaze. He sighed and let his eye fall shut. What the fuck did it matter; if she wanted to draw on him, so be it. He could give her that, he’d given her everything else, why not that too?

She continued decorating his skin, and he had to admit that it wasn’t unpleasant having her focused on him, her hand working reverently over his body, tracing his shoulder and muscles with the tender care of a sculptor. The slats of light that spilt in from the window grew warmer, stretched longer as the morning lazily progressed. He drifted in and out of sleep, half dozing as she used him as her personal canvas. 

He woke up to the smell of coffee. He rubbed a hand over his face, unaware that he’d fallen asleep and that she’d left to make breakfast. He looked down at his side, feeling his eyebrows rise when he saw the damage.

As usual, Bulma hadn’t half-assed her assignment, throwing herself into her project with her over-exuberant, over-achieving enthusiasm. He could see maker _all down his side_.

Butterflies. Butterflies for fucking days.

She came back into the room, carrying two steaming mugs, wearing his hoodie as a over-sized dress. He sat up, pulling the sheets over his lap as she handed him a mug.

“Do you like it?” she asked, sitting down on the bed next to him, smiling over her coffee.

He glowered at her. “Butterflies?” is all he asked. It’s all he needed to ask. What the _fuck_ , Bulma.

“It’s symbolic,” she explained, her eyes twinkling. Oh, she’d _known_ he wouldn’t be happy and she’d done it anyway.

“Of how much I tolerate your shit?” he growled.

Her smile widened. “Of your growth.”

“… What?”

“Butterflies represent a lot of things, Vegeta. Endurance. Change. Freedom… Resurrection.”

He scowled and looked away, staring out the window, suddenly uncomfortable. His fingers tightened on the mug as his stomach tightened with anxiety, trying not to think about… _that_ , or the events leading up to it and the goddamn dragon balls.

She leaned in and kissed his shoulder. “Can I finish?”

“What?” He asked sullenly.

“The ink.”

He looked down at her ‘work’, his eyes going wide. “It’s not _done_?”

“I couldn’t reach your front while you were asleep,” she pouted.

He felt himself getting agitated, but one look at her hopeful expression stopped his anger from mounting, and he swallowed it back down. “ _Fine_ ,” he huffed. “But don’t take all fucking morning.”

She grinned and put their cups aside. She pushed him back, a simple press of her fingers to his chest, and reluctantly he lay back against the headboard. She pulled out the marker and continued her work, drawing more butterflies and swirls down his side, the ‘tattoo’ creeping over his stomach, his hip, and down the flat of his belly. He noticed her inching the pen towards his lower pelvis where the sheets were bunched in an attempt at covering himself up.

“Bulma,” he said, his tone a warning growl.

“Yes?” she purred, her voice dripping innocence as she tugged down the sheets. 

“How far do you plan on taking this?”

“Shhh, don’t question art, Vegeta.”

He could feel a familiar scowl pulling down his brow, but he stayed his tongue, watching as she drew her hundredth-something butterfly above the base of his cock. She was lying between his legs at this point, the hem of the hoodie creeping up and revealing the hint of her soft bottom underneath. She hadn’t put on any panties. Her mouth hovered over the sheets that barely covered his cock which was now half hard with renewed interest.

He folded his arms and his scowl deepened as she drew a little vine near his cock. He felt himself twitch, growing swollen. He grabbed her wrist. “Enough,” he growled, his voice gravelly with annoyance and lust.

She looked up at him, her eyes alight with interest, a mischievous smirk on her rose petal lips. “No, there’s one more.” She sat up, slipping into his lap before he could stop her. He tried to sit up but she pushed him back down, wriggling in his lap to get comfortable, the length of him pressed snuggly between her ass and he gripped her hips to keep her from grinding further against him.

With a smirk she raised the marker and drew one final butterfly, bigger than the others, over his heart. He watched her trace two capital Bs back-to-back, then added in some antenna and details to the wings. “There,” she declared, giving it a final poke with her finger. “B B. Bulma Briefs. Now you belong to me.”

Oh.

 _Hers_. He swallowed, nervous. He should have been annoyed that someone was trying to lay claim to him so shortly after his liberation from Frieza’s crew. Couldn’t he enjoy his freedom for five goddamn minutes before some asshole came along and tried to order him around? But then again, she wasn’t some asshole was she? She was Bulma, his Bulma, and she was claiming him. He didn’t feel annoyed. He felt…

“Okay?” she asked, leaning in, her lips ghosting against his.

His eyes narrowed, watching her return his gaze with wicked, sparkling blue eyes. His fingers tightened on her hips, tugging her in. “Yeah,” he admitted against her lips just before her claimed her in a kiss.

She sighed happily against him.

His fingers dipped down, cupping her bare ass beneath his sweater, and he pulled her apart, spreading her open to easily slip inside. She was still sticky from their earlier encounter and the thought of her having spent the morning with his mark all over her, all _inside_ her, only ignited his lust. He rode her hard in his lap, dragging her down over him again and again with mounting desperation, striving to hear her break, hear her moan and whisper sweet pleas and vulgar encouragements. He regretted not being able to see her breasts, so he ripped the hoodie off her, revealing her supple frame and marveled at her body as she arched and shivered and bounced against his cock.

She threw her head back and wailed his name, coming on him with trembling need, and he pressed his brow to her breasts and followed her, swearing and groaning and perhaps letting her name slip as he spilt himself inside her again oh _oh god_ he’d never grow tired of this. Fuck he wanted this to last forever…

He collapsed back against the headboard and she lay sprawled on his chest, curled up like a contented cat. His fingers idly brushed her back as hers traced the lines of the marker on his skin that covered his side like some wanna-be yakuza.

He looked down, watching her touch a butterfly. “Surprised it didn’t sweat off,” he commented.

She tensed.

His brow rose. “What’s wrong?”

She sat up, giving him a sheepish, guilty smile. “Uh, nothing.” She glanced to the nightstand where the marker lay.

His brow pulled down. She reached for it.

He was faster.

He snatched it away and she started protesting but he ignored her, pushing her back with a hand to her face and she spluttered indignantly but he used the chance to bring the marker up for inspection.

“…Bulma.”

“Vegeta?”

“This says it’s _permanent_.”

“…. Uh. It might. Yes.”

He glared at her, feeling his temper rise. “How long am I going to have to wear fucking _butterflies,_ Bulma?” he asked, his tone dangerously quiet.

“Err….”

“I’ve _literally_ killed people for less.”

“I… love you?”

“You bitch.”

 

 

* * *

~~ox0xo~~

* * *

 

 **AN:** This is thanks to **Nofcksgiven** who always writes the most amazingly in-depth reviews to my fics, and who also put this goddamn idea into my head, that crafty wench. 

And of course, as always, I write this AU with the strongest and most utmost respect and adoration for **Stupidoomdoodles;** her ideas, characters, art and AU are forever burned into my very soul. I am forever her literary slave.

 **Stupidoomdooles** drew Bulma in Vegeta's hoodie!

 **Rutbisbe** drew the most amazing fanart for ‘03 - Denial’, so you HAVE to check it out, HOMG, it’s seriously killer.

 

 _DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is stupidoomdoodle’s idea. I’m just playing in their sandboxes, very graciously by Dooms too I might add._ **_Stupidoomdoodles_ ** _and_ **_LadyVegeets_ ** _can be found on_ **_twitter_ ** _,_ **_tubmlr_ **_. Girl Next Door comic can also be found on_ **_smackjeeves_ ** _. Read it, love it, be haunted by it, like I am._

 


	14. GND - [Epilogue] Identity Crisis

ATTENTION:

THIS IS NOT THE "NEWEST" CHAPTER. I initially wrote these out of order. To see the newest chapter, _**GO BACK TWO (2) CHAPTERS.**_

 

Continue reading for the 'epilogue':

* * *

Dooms gave me puppy eyes and hinted I write more fanfic…. And I cannot deny her anything, goddamnit. No, no, it’s fine, my other projects be damned. Wrapped around her goddamn little finger, so here, take it, TAKE IT, ALONG WITH MY SOUL WHICH YOU ALREADY OWN.

Based on what happens **_after_** the **“Girl Next Door”** comic by **stupidoomdoodles,** from a fanart/blurb she made **.** Check out her work on twitter, tumblr or smackjeeves.

 

* * *

x

 **Girl Next Door - (Epilogue) - Identity Crisis**  
****

Vegeta stared up at the perfectly blue sky, his brow marred by a frown. There weren’t even any clouds he could watch drift by, just an endless, endless, perfect as you please, magically blue fucking sky.

He should be happy. He knew that, logically, he didn’t have a damn care in the world and he should be fucking happy, but all he felt was an uneasy weight in the pit of his belly, gnawing at him, clawing its way out, infecting him from the inside, growing like a cancer and filling him with something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Doubt.

Insecurity.

Purposeless.

The gentle lapping of the water as it kissed the edges of the nearby pool only highlighted how perfectly serene and calm everything was, should be, everything except his goddamn head, his mind a-whir, tumbling over itself with bitter psychoanalysis that only led him deeper and deeper down a rabbit hole he didn’t want to be in. The sun baked his skin, a heavy, warm weight that sapped the energy from his limbs, aggravating, chaffing, mocking him because it stole his strength, fed on it, knowing he had no use for it.

Because he had nothing to do. For the love of god, _there was nothing for him to do_.

When was the last time he’d ever experienced that? _Had_ he ever experienced that? There was always _something_ going on, always another hit, another task, even if that task was simply ‘stay out of trouble’ or ‘lay low’ or ‘wait for orders’. That was still something. _That_ was the job. Waiting for the next job _was_ a job, it meant training and eating and resting to be in peak condition for the next assignment, it meant gathering information or cleaning up lose ends or running errands until the time came when he could wrap his fingers around a man’s throat and watch the sucker’s life leave his eyes…

…Instead of wrapping his fingers around a disinterested long neck. Vegeta stared numbly down at the bottle of chilled imported beer that he’d been sipping out of obligation. That’s what people of leisure did, right, drink beer by the pool? He really had no idea.

How did one go from a dangerous gang member with a headcount in the hundreds to a multibillionaire’s toy boy with _nothing to fucking do_? 

Well, _she’d_ certainly had an idea about what he could do. After days of him skulking about the place, growing more and more restless, she’d finally approached him that morning, stretching out a ridiculously tiny piece of fabric between her fingers.

“The hell is that?” he asked her. That, he reflected now, had been his first big mistake of the day. He should have known that mischievous look in her eyes was a signal for him to run to the gym and not come out until dinner time, but he’d already broken half the equipment already from too much vigorous use and despite her billions, Bulma seemed in no hurry to get the damn machines fixed.

She smirked at him and handed the fabric over. When he was finally able to deduce what it was, he felt his face grow hot and his eyes go wide in horror. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Her smirk grew darker, wicked.

He felt dread wash over him. “You’re fucking not, are you?”

She titled her head to the side, _endearingly_ and shook it without sympathy (traitorous bitch). “It’ll do you good. Go outside. Relax. You’ve earned it.”

“Relax? In _these?_ ” He held up the swimwear in disgust. 

She shrugged. “What, I can’t get something out of it too? It’s the least you could do for living here rent free.”

And _dear god_ he must have been desperate, desperate for _anything_ to do, _any_ order to follow, because here he was, lying by the pool in a goddamn g-string like some fucking cabana boy who should want for nothing and he was _hating every minute of it_.

He was going to go insane. He was going to go fucking insane living here. Maybe, maybe he already was, always had been, but the constant movement and work and killing things and equally insane companionship had never made him realize it until now. That… that would make a whole lot of sense actually. Explain _a lot_ of fucking things. Oh god, he was insane. Vegeta, you’re batshit insane, how did you not realize that before?

Oh my fucking god, I’m even talking to myself. Right. Fucking. Now.

He heard someone laugh. He frowned and narrowed his eyes against the sun and saw her, standing at the other end of the pool in her work clothes, looking more beautiful than the day around them, clearly overdressed, or at least she appeared so next to him, and he struggled between humiliation and an odd feeling of relief that she’d come to save him from himself.

Again.

It was becoming a nasty habit of hers. 

“I’ve never seen anyone look so miserable trying to relax,” she teased, clearly amused, taking in his scowl and rigidity. She’d more than likely been watching him for longer than he felt comfortable with, a blush creeping up his neck but he hoped his sun ruddied skin kept it hidden.

He feigned indifference. “Are you happy? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asked, his tone more caustic than he’d meant as he indicated his predicament. 

She dragged her eyes over him without any reservation, causing his gut to clench and his palms to sweat. He sat up as she approached, suddenly alert. She sat by his side and took the beer from his hand, taking a swig. Her nose scrunched.

“It’s warm,” she complained.

He’d been nursing it too long.

“And this isn’t what I wanted,” she added, putting the beer aside and turning her sharp blue gaze on him. “Well… the attire perhaps. But this,” she waved her hand at his chair, the pool. “I thought you could try to unwind, you know, for once. Take it easy. Do you even know what that means?”

He looked at her dumbly. He saw the smile on her face, watched it die when she realized that actually, no, he didn’t fucking know what that meant, and he was so hopelessly lost by the idea that he was starting to convince himself that he needed to be committed to a padded white cel.

His throat bobbed and he looked away, sweating now and not from the sun. It always felt like she was giving him the third degree, even when she simply looked at him. She had a way of looking inside him, prying out parts of him he wasn’t even aware existed, and that was always unsettling. He wanted to snatch them back and crush them to pieces before she had a chance to realize just how thoroughly broken he was.

“Hey, Vegeta,” she said, her voice taking on that soft, concerned tone that made him flinch because it sounded awfully too close to pity for his liking. “This isn’t supposed to be difficult. This is suppose to be fun, you dunce.”

“Oh, it is. I’m having a real fucking riot out here with Me, Myself and I,” he drawled.

She sighed, exasperated. “Then go do something else!” she said, throwing up her hands. “It was just a suggestion. I mean, it’s got to be better than getting beaten up or killing someone, right?”

He didn’t answer her, his silence condemning.

“…Right?” she repeated, her voice less sure now.

He looked at her, his expression pained. “… At least I was good at that,” he admitted, the goddamn heat or beer having addled his brain enough to let the words fall out before he could stop them. Or maybe his insanity made him do it.

 _Right, blame it on that_ , _is that going to be your latest crutch, you coward?_

He saw her face fall and he fisted his hands, looking away, heavy with self loathing. It’s not that he _liked_ killing, per se, it’s just that he very definitely didn’t _dislike_ it, which for Vegeta, was saying a lot, because he disliked almost everything. And he was good at it, dealing death and mayhem. Like, really, fucking good at it. And he’d come to take a pride in that, because fuck, what else in his miserable life could he say that about? Morally he knew it was wrong, but morality hadn’t ever been there for him, it hadn’t been there when Frieza had killed his father, hadn’t been there every time someone else had fucked up and pinned it on Vegeta, the new kid, hadn’t been there to save him from pain, or starvation, or countless scenarios where it was just him or some other guy, and Vegeta had chosen himself. Every. Goddamn. Time. That had been the key to survival after all. And so, over time, Vegeta had come to relish his skills, enjoy the chaos, exalt in his ability to lose himself in other’s blood and pain, because it lessened his own, was a consuming, burning panacea to the numbing apathy that swallowed his soul.

And now, what was he fucking good at? What was he fucking good _for_?

Bulma’s face was struggling between being appalled and furious and something else. Something worse.

Pity.

“Look, Vegeta,” she said, her voice more matter-of-fact, not looking at him as she spoke. Her bangs fell in her eyes and his fingers twitched, wanting to push them back. “I realize this is hard on you, that there’s going to be an adjustment period. It sounds to me like you need a goal, and moping around isn’t going to help. So you’re just going to have to suck it up and deal with it, and try not to be such a twat to everyone in the meantime.”

He scowled at her, and she looked up at him with a small, impish smile.

He huffed and looked away. 

Bulma shifted, and to his surprise she was straddling him a moment later, her soft thighs over his hard ones, looking up the length of his body with eyes that ate up his every bulge and plane. She then sprawled on top of him, pooling over him with her body, her cool clothes rubbing against his burning, naked flesh, and instinctively his hands rose to grab her about the waist. She made a contented sound as she curled on top of him, and he lay helpless beneath her, unable to move for fear that she might feel his rising attraction, or worse, leave.

“What do _you_ want to do?” she asked him candidly, her cheek on his chest, and without her eyes boring into his, he felt much less exposed, although still just as awkward talking about his wants and desires.

Mostly because he didn’t really have any.

What _did_ he want?

All his life he’d just wanted to survive. To survive in order to be the best, to usurp everyone else, to inflict the pain he himself felt inwardly onto others, to both live up to and destroy the expectations Frieza had set on him, to crush Frieza’s face under his boot and laugh while he did so, even while knowing that dream would probably never come to pass. Ultimately, what it came down to, is he’d wanted _freedom_.

And yet, now, Frieza _had_ been defeated, and he _did_ have freedom, and Vegeta had absolutely no idea what the fuck to do with it. He’d wanted freedom for freedom’s sake, he’d never really considered what he’d do with it, or the implications much beyond that, because, deep down, he’d always known that fate had something far less glamorous in store for him, something far crueler that ended with him dead and disposed of in a dumpster somewhere.

Not lying in a g-string under the smartest and most beautiful girl he’d ever had the greatest, dumbest fucking luck of his life to have met.

He’d been quiet too long. Suddenly something smacked him in the face. Her hand.

“Less brooding, more talking, big guy,” she insisted.

He grumbled something and peeled her hand off him. “I don’t know!” he finally admitted, frustrated.

She propped her chin up on her hand, and blew at her bangs to try and dislodge them. It didn’t work. “Don’t know what?”

He looked down his nose at her, and with a scowl of impatience, brushed her hair from her face. She smiled at him adoringly for it. He looked away, flustered. “What I want to do,” he said, gruffly.

“Vegeta, you can do _anything_ , anything at all. And you have _all the time in the world_ to figure it out.”

He gripped her small waist tighter, the implications of having infinite possibilities open to him terrifying. Choice? He had _choice_? What fucking novelty was that?

She wiggled against him, watching the subtle war of expressions on his face, her blue eyes dancing with an emotion he couldn’t quite put his finger on, something warm and sickeningly doting. It made his jaw clench. “What?” he barked at her testily.

She grinned. “You’re thinking too hard about it. C’mon, use your gut. Let’s practice. Something small. What do you want right now?” she asked. “A cold beer? A steak? Some body lotion? My vote is on that last one. I’ll even help you put it on, because I’m generous like that.”

He gave her a condescending look that only seemed to ignite her amusement. She was beautiful when she smiled. Hell, she was always beautiful, but especially when she looked at him in this way, the corners of her eyes crinkling, her eyes twinkling, her face split with a smile, soft and genuine, that he’d only seen her use for him. Just for _him_.

Something unfurled in his chest, opening up and wrapping long vines about his heart, sinking thorns in to the beating muscle with a deadly grip that _didn’t let go_ , but Vegeta was accustomed to pain. What he wasn’t accustomed to was this feeling. This possession. This hopeless, desperate dependence. 

He pulled her up the length of his body so that they were face to face, and he felt a stab of smugness when her breath caught in her throat and her cheeks pinkened prettily. 

 _Mine_ , something growled in his mind, and he had to agree with it, sanity be damned.

“You,” he said, his voice coming out deeper and huskier than before, and he felt her shiver in response. Her fingers curled against his chest, and he tightened his own, feeling her soft flesh give under his grip. “I want you.”

Bulma’s breath came out shaky, and she put her hands on his cheeks, searching his eyes for something he feared she’d find lacking. But she smiled, the curl of her mouth lilting, playful. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

He felt his eyes narrow, a pleased, prideful little smile tug on his mouth. He brought his hands up to sift through her hair, her short blue tresses so unbearably soft, like feathers. She leaned in and kissed him and he kissed her back, drawing his knees up to cradle her against him, shielding her against the outside world as best he could, keeping her all for himself.

 _Greedy_.

“I love you,” she murmured against his mouth. 

He tensed. Fuck, _fuck_ did he hate when she did that, the sentiment still novel enough to make him fucking _blush_ , the words like nails on a chalkboard because it mystified him beyond reason how someone like her could ever love someone like him. 

She giggled seeing his discomfort. “You’re blushing like a school girl.”

“Shut it, Blue.”

“Oooh, you must be embarrassed to be using that old nickname,” she teased wickedly, pressing herself against his crotch. 

In retaliation he put his hands on her ass and squeezed, a little too hard, and watched her tremble, dropping her head in pleasure. He was getting a handle on what her buttons were, taking great pleasure in getting to shut her up in interesting ways.

“I want you,” she breathed, all the joking gone from her now, leaving only desire in her eyes, and his body responded.

And that’s when it hit him. He wanted her too, not just now, but always. And he was pretty fucking good with her. She certainly had no room for complaint in that department, or none that she’d voiced yet, and she’d certainly voiced a lot of things as he’d thrust into her, his ego swelling along with his cock, watching her arch against him in helpless abandon, screaming his name and begging for more, begging for all of him, and he’d obliged, giving her everything he had, every last, broken, miserable piece of himself and watched in awe as she’d cherished each bit.

He didn’t dislike it. In fact, he _liked_ it. Liked _her_ , a lot.

Loved her. _A lot._

And it should have been terrifying, wholly earth-shatteringly horrifying, but oddly, Vegeta felt a peace and tranquility settle over him that he hadn’t felt in days, or perhaps ever. He wanted her, loved her, as much as someone like him could, and it was enough for now. Perhaps, in time, everything else would fall into place around that.

He scooped her up and she yelped in surprise, clinging to him. He smirked down at her, the thorns in his heart digging in deeper as she blushed up at him.

“Where are we going?” she asked, breathless with excitement.

“To change,” he growled. “We’re overdressed.”

Her eyes slipped over his nakedness, and her kittenish smile was a lightening bolt to his cock. “I can see that.” She wrapped her arms about his neck and nuzzled him as he carried her inside. “You’re okay?” she dared to ask.

He held her tighter, walking with confidence. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I’m okay.”

 _Thanks to you_.

 

 

* * *

~~ox0xo~~

 

 **AN:** Well shit, that got sappy.

Okay Dooms, I’m throwing down the glove: Vegeta in a gstring. MAKE IT HAPPEN. DO YOU MOTHERFUCKING ACCEPT? >:) 

I had to research ‘men in g-strings’ for this. Yeah, -had- to. For, uh, _RESEARCH_. … shuddup.

Please review? And send love to stupidoomdoodle as well, this AU is possible because of her.

DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is stupidoomdoodle’s idea. I’m just playing in their sandboxes.


End file.
